


Circles

by Fiddlehoo



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Anal Sex, Arguing, Blow Jobs, Declarations Of Love, Drama & Romance, Established Relationship, First Love, FrUK, Golden Age, Great Depression, Idiots in Love, It's dense. I'm sorry. Take a break between events if you have to., Jealousy, Kissing, M/M, Mind Games, Naked Cuddling, Sexual Fantasy, So Much Arguing, The Moroccan Crises, Trust Issues, VERY LONG sex scenes, semi-parenting, they try so hard to stay together
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-24
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-03-23 13:30:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 40,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13788747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fiddlehoo/pseuds/Fiddlehoo
Summary: Through the centuries they try to maintain their relationship, as well as their sanity, as struggle after struggle comes their way. Much of their hardships start outside the relationship in historic events, but because they refuse to trust one another, any piece of evidence - no matter how irrelevant or vague- is enough to assume their love has run dry.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Because Egypt’s birthday is after his independence from England (based off Hetalia), I’m writing him as if he’s a younger country. Just so we all know, I’m aware England and France aren’t the oldest countries in the world.
> 
> My writing is not the best. Hope you like this.

1904

 

Opening the front door to the wide gravel patio, England stepped out into the sun. Cypress trees lined down the drive to an overgrown hydrangea bush, separating the garden from the house. France was out there counting flowers or something rather. His nonsense was none of England’s concern.

It was about time for the post to arrive. He’d been receiving letters from Germany as of late, just casual conversation. He couldn’t help but wonder if this was brought on by the recent Entente Cordiale, an agreement between France and England of their respectful guardianships of Morocco and Egypt. Before living together, France and England introduced one another to their adopted children. They were both tense about how the other country would react at first, but they came to agree to have the four of them share one roof. They were, however, strict with their ideas of child raising and disputes occurred over teaching methods. So they further agreed France wouldn’t try to raise Egypt as long as England didn’t try to raise Morocco. Everyone would keep their noses in their own business.

Anyway, in a response letter, England beat around the bush about asking for the intention of these letters. He didn’t want to seem too suspicious or obvious, but he would like to get some information out of Germany. He would get the country’s reply today.

He put his hands in his pockets, admiring the leaves hanging off the house as the vines carried them to the roof. They were turning yellow with the end of the warm season. It was getting darker earlier too. France would need to occupy his time doing something else, indoors preferably.

When England looked back up the drive, the postman was passing through the gate on the other end of the property. Alexi stopped his bike at the door and shuffled through his bag.

“Here you are.” He handed over a pile of letters, wrapped together with a string. “Maybe one of these is from Germany.”

England untied the bundle and looked them over. “I don’t see it. He must’ve gotten it in late. I’ll get it next time.”

“Of course.” He agreed, “I’ll have that letter for you next time. Who are you expecting it from?”

“Uh,” England tried to remember what the country called himself. “Ludwig. We’re business rivals.”

“In that case, how do you know he’ll write you back? He could be using you to get closer to your company.”

England stared at the letters, waiting to find he’d misread something and the one that he was waiting for would suddenly appear. But of course, it never did. After a moment he said in farewell, “Thank you.”

Alexi peddled round the drive and back out through the gate.

Then, England turned to go inside. It wasn’t unusual to miss a letter. England turned into his study, where his valet was sorting paperwork. The man looked up from his work for a moment.

“Sir, has the letter you’ve been awaiting arrived?”

“No,” he replied in a near pout.

“Are you still addressing the postman with familiarity, sir?”

“I like to.” He admitted, walking to his desk. “Why shouldn’t I? He’s a nice old fellow.”

“Of course, Sir.”

England sat down, picking up the letter opener and reacquainting himself with earlier thoughts. He’d been left to wait for responses before. Indeed, he was still waiting to hear back from Ireland. He’d been left in suspense many of times really, by various countries and all at once for a time, as a matter of fact. For some reason Germany’s late reply made him unsteady. Was it because this was Germany? Should he assume he’d been found out? But of course, what could Germany do?

England went ahead and dismissed his suspicion about the matter. Instead, he read his first letter. Then, he read the next one. And then, the next one. However, he couldn’t help but think about the missing response. With every new line on the paper he imaged what Germany might say, what he might be thinking. What was the country up to?

England thought back to what he last told Germany. It wasn’t anything proud or blunt, it was simply a long way around asking what Germany had planned. Why would he suddenly send England letters about nothing in particular? He and England had never been this comfortable in their exchanges before. They’d never exchanged much at all, actually. England had every right to be sceptical. Why shouldn’t he be worried about this? It wasn’t every day he received a letter out of nowhere. What was even more suspicious was this letter came almost straight after the Entente Cordiale. That was back in April. That was how long he’d been writing Germany. In the first place, how did Germany become aware of the agreement? England wasn’t one to flaunt these things. Was it France who told him? Why would France do that? That didn’t seem like France.

He would just have to wait for Germany’s response. There was no use in fretting over something that may not actually be happening. Though he was certain it was. Nevermind, England would go among his business until the letter came.

 

So England wasn’t sitting at his desk anymore, rather he was sitting in the parlor. This room was far more open, there being less furniture, and the wallpaper was lighter. In addition, there were more windows in this room, welcoming an easy flow of light onto the carpet. This room was simply more suitable for someone trying not to think about an overdue letter.

England had been sitting in a little yellow chair by the window for the past few hours. He held an empty cup of tea, which he finished a while ago, but rather than set it down he held it. As if it would take care of itself with time. He couldn’t think to do anything about it. Just as he couldn’t get himself to snap out of his stupor. He kept on staring out the window. Occasionally, he’d catch his eye on one of the frames, distracted by how they severed a clear view of the garden. Then he’d return to something outside, a tree perhaps, or rose bush. However, he wouldn’t let himself comprehend what he was staring at for too long. After a moment of recognition, making sense of a branch or what have you, his mind wandered off again. This would’ve been a pleasant way to let his thoughts wander, he supposed, if what he’d been thinking of hadn’t been what Germany’s reply might be. Indeed, this letter was not leaving his conscious.

Someone came through the back door, a faint squeak signaling their entry. By the weight of this person’s step, he knew it was France who drew nearer. The children would remain outside for as long as they could, of course.

Soon France was in the same room. “Let’s go out tonight.”

England stared ahead. “Where?”

“Mmm,” he looked off for an idea. “Maybe there’s an art show we can go see.”

“Are you planning on bringing the kids?”

France sat on the arm of the chair. “Oh, let the governess do her job.”

“What’s there to do at an art show?”

“Don’t you worry your pretty head.” He stroked England’s hair. “I’ll explain it all to you. I’ll even teach you about the primary colours.”

“I’m not sure an art show is what I need right now.”

“You spend too much time in this house. You must have fun, see new things, meet new people.” He slid both hands down to England’s neck where he messaged round his collar.

“I suppose. I have been rather stressed lately. Though, I can’t understand how looking at art is any better than staring out a window.”

“It’s the experience, the atmosphere. An art show would be good for your thoughts. It would take your mind off things and beg you to concentrate only on the piece.”

England relaxed under the country’s touch.

“Maybe they’ll have a workshop. You could learn how to start a hobby of your own.”

“I have plenty of hobbies. Not as much as you, but you never get any work done.”

France dipped a hand into England’s shirt, the buttons stopping him from journeying too far. “Come, let’s spend a little. We work all year but we never do anything for our efforts.”

“I work all year,” he corrected.

“We must reward ourselves.” France traced England’s neck and shoulders with the palms of his hands. “Let go. Give in to temptation.”

England started a slower and heavier breath, further inviting himself to relax.

“Are you done with this?” He put a light hold on England’s cup and saucer.

“Oh,” England finally put it on the side table. “I couldn’t get myself to put it down.”

“You silly englishmen and your tea. Your arms must be so tense.” He pushed down along England’s arms, dragging his hands back up again in an easy scrubbing motion.

“It isn’t like that. I was preocc-”

France hushed him and glided his message onto England’s chest, leaning down to kiss the country’s ear. “What you need is a night off your ass.”

England sighed. After a moment he continued, “I’d rather not share small talk with strangers.”

“I’ll Tell them to take their inquiries elsewhere. It’ll just be you and me.”

“I don’t feel like it.”

France pulled his fingers up and unbuttoned the country’s shirt, kissing around England’s hairline. “How about a restaurant? You’ll still be sitting but you’ll be amongst society, huh? We’ll get a table in the back, somewhere you don’t have to actively socialise. I’ll be the only one with you.”

England’s chest stirred, and he turned into France’s lips to get more attention on his face.

“Is that better?”

He gave France a kiss, their noses lingering against the other’s cheek. “Why not simply stay home, then?”

“Oh, so you want to stay home?” He challenged, “Why don’t you come with me upstairs?”

 

England grunted with his chest and face buried in sheets, the lower half of him cradled in France’s lap as he kneeled under the larger country. France had a strong hold on England’s wrist, putting all of his upper body weight on it. England panted and tried to push his other hand across the sheets as far as he could, at least he would have one limb free and to do with as he pleased. He thought he might grip the side of the bed for support. Though it wasn’t long before France took his own free hand off the bed, chasing after the remaining wrist. The younger country wrapped his fingers round the edge of the mattress, his arm flat against the sheets. It was too far away for France to reach by then.

In defeat, France brought his centre of balance back to hover over England again. He planted his free hand where it would’ve been if he’d gotten hold of England’s wrist, further aligning himself with the other’s hips, and concentrated back on slapping his body against the younger country’s backend.

England huffed onto his shoulder a few rounds before digging his nose into the sheets, turning his head to rest the other way. He whined with each breath as France pounded into him. He tried to say something other than unintelligible noises.

“Hn, France-” he gasped.

The other gave a slow giggle. “England. You’re so beautiful.”

He gritted his teeth and panted through them, squeezing his eyes shut.

France let his eye follow along the indent of England’s spine. The younger country laid twisted with his one arm reaching and the other confined at his side, one end of him smashed to the bed and the other caught in an upturned position against France. He followed England’s spine all the way down to where their bodies collided. Oh, he was so beautiful. How his shoulders twitched, his back straightened, his little ring of muscle clenching on and off around France. He just wanted to eat England up.

He lowered his mouth to the country’s shoulder and kissed him as many times he could. “Mmn,” he moaned into the country’s skin.

“Oh,” he moaned, “France! Oh, France!”

The older country fought through his long strands of hair to get more of England’s skin on his mouth. He sucked on a shoulder blade, the muscles flexing under his touch.

“Oh,” England cried with more urgency, “Oh!”

“Control yourself, love.”

“I can’t, don’t make me!” He buried his face in the bed, “I can’t!”

France pushed himself along the other’s insides, feeling England attempt to loosen up round him. The downward country bucked against France as best he could, trying to get himself to come before France could do anything about it.

“France, I swear, don’t stop!”

“Let me have you again, and I’ll give you anything you want.”

“Yes,” England panted, turning his face to one side. “Yes, fine! So please!”

The other shoved his hips harder, trying to maneuver England’s opposing force. The downward country brought his extended arm under his stomach and ran it across the head of his dick.

“Oh, England,” he scolded, though with empathy in his voice. “You just relax. Let me take care of that for you.”

England’s hips sank forward as he did as he was told.

With the rivaling thrusts over with, France continued rocking the other country to his breaking point. He got down on his arms to hold himself closer to the bed, releasing England’s wrist. He reached under the country in search for that hand that finally decided to join.

“Here,” France insisted as he swatted the other country’s hand away. “No, no, no.” He then started his own light pull along England’s dick.

“Mmn,” England sank into the sheets as much he could, France draped over his back and whispered sweet nothings into his neck. England whimpered in response, “Ah…”

France loved when he could pleasure the country enough that England could only speak in moans. It was appetising, knowing England could no longer think to say anything logical. All that talk was tiresome anyway. France much prefered that they communicate this way. It was times like these when they really spoke the same language, begging and accommodating to the other’s needs. There was no denying what they wanted at that point, for the body was a very honest thing. Regardless, the two had grown quite familiar with one another’s regions and how they liked to be treated.

For one thing, England loved France’s sweet nothings. His cold front softened with the sound of France’s tender whispers, and he became quite the obedient little thing. France liked to use this talent for special occasions, such as leading England into an orgasm when he was perfectly vulnerable already. This made for a very fond England, as he grew caught in the romance of it all and simply awaited France to work some more magic.

“Aah,” cried the downward country, ripping France from his thoughts.

He exhaled on England’s back, caressing the skin with his nose, shaking his head in slow turns as if silently telling England he wasn’t being fair. France would’ve prefered to keep the country in this state as long he possibly could. Oh well. He was told he could have England again later anyway. He would make sure to discipline the needy little country in due time.

It wasn’t too much longer before England came in France’s hand, humming through his clamped lips. Now that he’d made sure England was satisfied, France worked on finishing himself, still fondling the other country’s dick in easy motions.

“France,” he drew heavy pants. “Hurry, before I lose interest in kissing you.”

“Then I’ll kiss you.” France gave it a few more thrusts, wanting so much to savour the moment. However, he obeyed the country and got himself to his climax in a timely fashion. He moaned England’s name over and over until they could unwind and lay beside one another. At which time, said country took France by the mouth and continued to kiss him long into the afterglow.

“Hmm,” England held himself up as best he could as he leaned over the other, his elbows shaking under his weight. Once he couldn’t take any more, he threw himself back down on the bed, whipping onto his back beside the other country.

France puffed a long sigh as he threw an arm across England’s pillow, having it land just above the country’s head. He stared up at the ceiling, waiting for the rest of himself to calm down.

 ~*~

The hills served as a shallow cradle the way they rolled down to the pond, nesting a bridge amongst autumn trees which surrounded the location. Far on the other end of the pond stood a small structure for when the rain had grown intolerable. Though the clouds weren’t too heavy. Really, they were merely overcast. Speckles of orange leaves laid fastened in the grass, having been blown from the trees farther up the hill. They accompanied England as he waltzed down to the water, gun in hand.

He didn’t like to admit it, but France was right in that England would forget his troubles if he only left the house. Already the weight of Germany’s missing letter began to lose severity. He supposed the fresh air served as a filter of sorts, reminding him that he was much bigger than this silly letter. He found it easier to breathe as well, and simply took in his surroundings without the constant nag of unfinished business. This was much different from his chair. Not only was he off his ass, he was out and about, actually smelling the flowers rather than staring into them. But of course there were no flowers.

France bounded down the hill after him, coming to a quick stop by the country’s side, only to slip on some leaves and fall to his back.

England turned to look down at him.

“Well you know,” said France with a new found pride, “This is a good angle for you.”

He creased his brow, “Get up.”

France got back on his feet and brushed his ass. “Have you found anything, standing about down here by yourself?”

“If you wouldn’t talk so much I wouldn’t need to remove myself.”

“Oh, is that why you can’t find anything?”

“Yes.”

“Because I’m talking so much?”

“Yes,” England repeated with more irritation.

“Are you sure it has nothing to do with how close we still are to the house?”

England stared ahead at the impending wilderness. “We’re yards from the house.”

“Yet, there’s your pavilion across the pond there,” he gestured to the structure. “And your silly arcadia bridge just there.”

England corrected, “It’s all arcadia.”

“It’s nonsense is what it truly is. Do you think animals feel comfortable about man made structures? No. How do you expect a proper hunt on this estate?”

“I’ve been hunting just fine long before you arrived.”

France gave an exaggerated sigh, rolling his eyes as he turned away.

“Oh,” He mimicked the country’s long lasting breath, “Please.”

They made their way to the wood across the bridge, where there was more environment than stone. France had been thinking about cooking up a nice duck, or perhaps a rabbit. He’d been in the mood for something sweet the past few days. Though, England was more in the mood for lamb. There were many things wrong with that. For one thing, England didn’t raise lamb, so they would need to travel to market and England didn’t want to go into town. Secondly, they always ate lamb. It was boring, and France had grown tired of the consistency. There are only so many ways a person can cook lamb. It was high time they had something fresh and exciting. Needn’t be mentioned more, but thirdly, lamb was simple: It takes no effort whatsoever to catch one (or in this case, buy one), it was bred to be mass produced and so was fairly common, and after so many dinners it’s quite easy to prepare.

No, no, it was time for a change. They were living extravagantly: Money was good, health was good, and they had all the time in the world. There was no reason they couldn’t have a little hunting party. Well, France would’ve liked to invite some friends and have a proper one, but everything he did was for England, and England didn’t want to be around people. So here he was. He never minded being alone with England too much. So long as the stubborn country didn’t insist on eating lamb the rest of his life.

From behind the far trees, stepping out into a small clearing, a doe held its head low to sniff the grass. England, with his heavy boots, bounded onward through the twigs and bushes, watching over his shoulder at something unrelated. France finally swung an arm out to stop him before England could cause too much ruckus.

“What?” England gave him his attention.

France gestured to the animal, a calm smile on his face. They admired her soft features and graceful movements as she continued along the wood. Following behind her was another, heading straight for the bushes on the other end of the clearing, not minding the grass at all. She was more of a busybody. She didn’t care to take her time like the first doe. England started a new hike off the trail, moving through short plants and flowers. France followed suit, agreeing they should let the does be as they carried on hunting.

They came to the same pond as it stretched round most of the wood, sewing hillsides together. France stepped over a fallen branch and met with his partner at the water. Trees on the other side casted black shadows across the pond, which embraced a swarm of ducks splashing about. France put a hand on England’s shoulder.

“Look at that. Not so difficult, was it?”

“I found them,” he reminded. “You have yet to redeem yourself.”

“Too bad you don’t own dogs either. We could’ve had them swim out and fetch the ones we shot. Maybe we’ll find a duck on shore around here.”

“If it’s between duck and rabbit, I’d rather have rabbit to be honest.”

France gave an exaggerated sigh as he stared at his partner in distaste.

“You gave me the choice, that’s you’re own fault! If I’d known you were going to be so picky, I’d have stayed home.”

“Without me, you would be growing mushrooms out your ears sitting in that chair.“ France walked back into the wood.

“I hardly think so.”

~*~

The doorbell rang. England wasn’t expecting anyone. Maybe France invited somebody over and forgot to mention it. Where was France, could he answer it? Oh, he was probably taking a bath. Where was the butler? Oh, nevermind. England walked across the house to get it himself.

Germany was at the door, clad in his green military coat. His car and chauffeur waited behind him.

England lowered his brow, “Yes?”

“I’ve come to discuss your letter in person.”

“Oh, is that it?”

Out in the drive, Morocco sat playing with a toy automobile. England wondered if the children had fought and were avoiding one another. That was the only reason he could figure as to why Morocco would be playing alone.

Germany said, “I hear you’ve come to acquire a new child.”

“Yes.”

He nodded in Morocco’s direction, “Is that the country, there?”

The truth was Morocco belonged to France, but in telling this to Germany, it would imply England and France lived together. Or shared each other’s company, at least. If anyone were to find out, it would cause too much trouble. Well, England could simply explain how France came to see him often. Would that sound questionable? He supposed it would rather. He could tell Germany how the children longed for play dates, and how France was so willing to comply. Where was the harm in that?

England said, “Yes, that’s Morocco. However, France adopted the country, not I.”

“I see,” he looked down at England, “And why is France’s child in your possession?”

“Being of respectable stature, of course, I allowed France to bring Morocco to my estate upon occasion to play with my child, Egypt.”

“So, you’ve acquired Egypt, then?”

“Indeed I have, Yes.”

Germany put one foot behind the other and turned to look across the drive, giving Morocco his full attention. “What is the child playing with?”

England glanced over at the young country again, pretending not to have seen the toy. “I suppose it’s a wooden automobile, or something of the sort. If there’s one thing France and I agree on, it’s proper exposure of the children to high living.”

“Quite. I assume you’re unaware of my business with the child. If you can imagine, keeping a country in such a situation as Morocco’s, especially at such a vulnerable age, may lead to mental consequences leading into adulthood.” His speech died off with England’s growing blank stare. “I further assume you are unaware of which I speak.”

“As it turns out, I am.”

Germany matched his shoulders with England’s as before. “It would seem France is sharing guardianship of Morocco with Spain. The child is being exposed to two different countries, and in turn, two different cultures simultaneously. Morals and valued behaviour concerned with the child will falter, and it would soon be our responsibility, yours, England, as well as mine, to handle the potential malevolent actions of this growing nation.”

“Malevolent,” he scoffed, “On what terms? Spain and France share many of values. I can’t understand, the way you do, why Morocco’s upbringing would induce any sort of threat.”

“Oh, forgive me.” Germany stretched an apathetic lip. “I was not aware your stature was so charitable towards the mule.”

“Don’t be mistaken.” England thought of something quick, “Barbarities are not elements I so easily overlook. Though, the intercultural affairs of foreign likenesses don’t involve me unless I find myself particularly interested. Indeed, it was sheltered to me of the situation with Morocco. Now I understand I’m entertaining a child of poor sophistication.”

“Am I to believe your input is also affecting the child?”

What did Germany mean by that? Was he trying to get England to share a bit of light on the Entente Cordiale? Was it that Germany already knew but he wanted the satisfaction of hearing it from the horse’s mouth? In any case, what would he gain from knowing about the agreement? It seemed safe enough to tell Germany about it. Whether or not Germany already knew was no skin off England’s nose. So the fact that France and England agreed to stay out of each other’s business when it came to raising children was becoming common knowledge. Countries shared their current events all the time.

“On the contrary,” said England. “It was agreed that I keep my distance from Morocco in return that France keep his distance from Egypt.”

“Very well. And where is France, then?”

“He would be using the lavatory.”

Germany nodded. He then continued, “Now that you’re aware of the circumstances, I shall inform you that my business regards the wellbeing of the child. As long as two guardians are already confusing the child, it would be best for the time being that no one else interfere. It would be preferred that one of the guardians stand down.”

“Do you mean to say my entertaining of the child is inappropriate?”

“In all due respect, your presence is causing additional trauma for the child.”

England stared at Germany in disbelief. Could this be true? He wondered if it really would be better if Morocco stayed away from his estate. And what was this Spain business? Granted, he knew France was rather close to the country, and it wouldn’t be unheard of if they were caring for Morocco together. But with how England and France’s relationship could get, he wondered if France was still seeing Spain on the side. There were quite a few mysteries now, weren’t there? Was France still with Spain? Would it be best if France took Morocco home? And what was the nature of Germany’s concern?

He didn’t notice the child standing in Germany’s shadow. Little Morocco stood with the toy car, looking up at the larger country. Germany returned a gaze, and after a moment, held a hand out to pat the child’s head. Though Morocco drew away and leaned for England. Was this proof? Was Morocco growing too familiar with England? In any case, was it ever a problem before for younger nations to be raised by multiple countries? Perhaps it was a new concept. If so, England wouldn’t have known; he always spent his leisurely time avoiding society.

 

A mule. Crossbred to infertility. Rivaling organisms creating a mutant so foul it writhes in the shadow of God’s mercy, as it were. Abandoned in its hideous skin with no more to expect from its miserable being than extinction. That was what Germany thought of Morocco.

England slumped in his chair by the window, elbow above his shoulder on the rest and head against his hand. He was trying to figure everything out. Why was Germany so damn concerned about Morocco’s well being? Was it because he wanted custody of the child? No, that would go against the point Germany was trying to make. Well, what was it then? If Germany had become interested shortly after the Entente Cordiale, it was obviously about France and England’s agreement. Was Germany trying to disband it? What would he gain from that?

France burst through the back door with two screaming children hanging from his arms. He was singing loudly into the house between Egypt and Morocco’s laughs. They stomped along the back hall and entered the dining room, shimmying through the doorway.

England thought about joining them, but this business with Germany was eating him alive. And another thing, was France or was France not still seeing Spain? He supposed he could journey in there and ask him. That would be a good excuse to leave his chair. He got up and headed for the dining room himself.

Morocco sang along with France, while Egypt dropped from the country’s arm. France put the other nation down as well then. The two of them ran round the table as France gathered himself, having just carried them in from God knows where in the garden.

England spoke up, “France, can I have a quick word with you?”

He looked over a shoulder. “We were just singing. Egypt doesn’t even know what I’m saying.”

“Yes, I’m sure. A word please.”

Morocco frowned from across the room, and France left with England.

They regrouped in the front hall by the office.

“Tell me straight out. Are you still seeing Spain?”

“Goodness, England.” He turned away in relief, closing his eyes.

“Do you really think this is about how unapproving I am of your singing? I know very well Egypt doesn't speak French.”

“I never can tell with you.”

“So, let's hear it.”

France put his hands in his pockets. “Why, is there something I’m not doing? Would you like me to give you more attention?”

Circumstances aside, England supposed he wouldn't be totally against the idea.

“Oh, what a pretty boy.” He came closer until he could wrap his arms round England’s waist. “You’ve been sitting all day again, haven't you? For someone with so much to give, you’re not very keen on sharing.”

“My appearance? Well, I don't flaunt myself like you, no.”

“You don't have to. Let me do it.” France leaned in and hovered before England's lips. “I always like to. What a pretty boy. How kissable you are, indeed.”

England narrowed his eyes at his partner, trying to keep up his stern attitude as he swallowed.

France kissed him. “Why don't you give us all something to do round here? Let the governess watch the kids and I’ll take you out.”

“I don't feel like it.”

France kissed him again. “Is this an invitation I hear?”

He turned away, “Would you first be so kind as to give me an answer at all?”

“Am I still seeing Spain?” France shuffled his feet to prepare himself to think. “Well, whose house am I living in?”

England kept waiting for him to answer the question.

“Who am I devoting all my time to? Who am I trying to take out every night? Who do I tolerate every day? Who have I been preparing lamb for?”

“Your answer, France?”

“What makes you think so?”

“Well, I’ve not experienced it first hand, but I’ve been made aware by a third party.”

France let his arms loose. “You’ve told your staff about my past relationship? What else do they know about me?”

“Not my staff, I was told by Germany. He came round the other day to discuss a letter.”

“Oh,” France laughed in mockery. ”Germany? You’d better keep an eye on your heart, England. You’ve got another man after it. I hope you like sausage.”

“It wasn’t about you and Spain. He informed me of your shared custody of Morocco.”

“So, we’ve got a new gossip bug in town, have we? You have to admire his style though. _Hit them where it hurts_ , and what have you. Did you tell him of our entente? How did he take it?”

England smoothed the air with his hands, trying to keep calm about this. “Would you, for just one moment, be quiet and take this seriously.”

“All right, All right, I’m listening.”

“According to Germany-”

France snorted, then quickly covered his mouth.

“Would you control yourself, please?”

“I’m trying.”

England continued, “According to Germany, you and Spain are influencing Morocco with colliding cultures.”

“Well, England, what business is that of yours?” He crossed his arms, “Suppose I began telling you what to do about Egypt. Really, make up your mind.”

“Be quiet. So, I assumed, the two of you keeping in contact, that you were still seeing each other-”

“Oh, that I couldn’t keep my hands off him? That I’m a March hare in constant need of carnal embrace?”

“To put it bluntly, yes.”

France smiled, “What would you do about it anyway? Would you crawl back to your chair and stare out the window for answers? You know nothing good ever comes out of that.”

“So, aren’t or are you?”

“You never quit.” He turned and walked back down the hall, “There’s a charming aspect of you.”

England rolled his eyes toward the office, finding the valet was listening the entire time. That angered him. First of all, the valet was supposed to be upstairs at that hour. What was more, England was already frustrated from having to deal with Germany’s intentions and France’s grey answer.

He went ahead and corrected the valet, “Aren’t you supposed to be upstairs?”

The valet stopped sorting through books and whipped his hands against his sides, hurrying out the room to head upstairs.

Really, if England had wanted the valet to hear them bickering, he would’ve went straight to the valet. Well anyway, if France wasn’t going to give him an answer, he was going to continue suspecting the worst. Maybe it was true. Maybe France was seeing Spain. What did it matter? He expected as such from France. The country was restless and needy. It was a wonder he liked England so much. All England ever did was sit in his chair. It was true. It was all true. Morocco was growing too familiar with England, let alone France and Spain; England was a worry wart, growing mushrooms out his ears; and France was seeing Spain.

England marched into his office, his head overflowing with bitter thoughts. Everything was coming at him at once, it seemed, and he didn’t know what to do about it. Neither did he know where to start to sort through it all. Sitting in his chair he thought he’d run through everything in the order they came: What was Germany up to? He didn’t start sending letters until England and France’s Entente Cordiale. So obviously, Germany was involving himself in the agreement. Then, Germany came over to talk about Morocco. The young nation was being influenced by both Spain and France. So obviously, Germany was concerning himself with Morocco’s well being. Now, if Germany wanted England to keep out of it, did that mean Germany wanted Spain and France to figure it out themselves? Was Germany suggesting everyone wait for either France or Spain to take full custody? That made sense. However, the Entente Cordiale was established so England couldn’t interfere with Morocco’s upbringing. By disbanding this, England would gain access to Morocco. Was Germany just ignorant to this fact? Was that all it was? If so, it would spare England a world of heartache. Perhaps he could ring Germany. Though, the operators may listen in. The last thing he wanted was for people to start a gossip chain about England’s informal conferences with Germany. Perhaps England could write him a letter. Though, it would take longer.

Oh bother. He’d write one anyway. It was far more reliable than telephone. England got to work, pulling out paper and pen for this letter.

 

Egypt sat across the table from England, and Morocco sat across France. Everyone had an empty seat on either side of them. Granted, the table was a larger model. France had his own vision of dinners, which included everyone seated round each other, which meant the table would only be four seats round, which further meant France would be inputting too much. First, the Entente Cordiale prevented France from interfering with Egypt’s home life. Furthermore, this was England’s house, and so they would use England’s furniture. France could sit round his miniature table in his own time.

Oh, England was so cross about the entente. He didn’t want to think about it anymore. He was quite done with it. Not to be confused with his relationship with France. He was still fond of France. Barely. He had yet to know whether the country was still seeing Spain.

“On clair de la lune!” France sang with Morocco.

“That’s the third time you’ve said that. What in God’s name does it mean?”

“Don’t you sing nursery rhymes, England?”

“I do in the proper environment.”

“Well, if I told you, Egypt would hear along with you.”

“Aren’t melodies and lyrics just as bad as their translation? How often do you sing this in front of the children?”

“I sing to Morocco, and Morocco just so happens to play with Egypt all day. So in short, whenever I sing to Morocco I in turn sing to Egypt.”

“And that doesn’t bother you at all?”

France cocked his head. “Remember when speaking French was an art? The whole world strove to speak it. It’s beautiful. It’s the essence of poetry and love. Don’t you remember?”

“That was many years ago.”

“Wouldn’t it be fun if our children spoke two languages? Then they could both understand us at the same time. No more translations. You and I could speak the language of love together.”

“I don’t want Egypt speaking your rubbish language. What makes you think I’d have any desire?”

“Morocco’s studying Spanish too. Come, wouldn’t it be fun to be a polylingual family?”

England glared at him. “That doesn’t interest me in the least. Would you quit singing to Egypt, please?”

He sighed, “Oh, you’re overdue for a kiss, aren’t you?” France then pulled out the chair separating himself from England to sit closer.

England leaned away as France brought his lips over. “What is wrong with you, honestly? We’re at the dinner table, and we just had an argument. In any case, you still haven’t given me a straight answer.”

France pulled away until England sat up again. Then, went in to kiss the country off guard.

“Stop it!” He put his silverware down to wipe his cheek.

Morocco giggled across the way.

“England, you and I need to have another _word_.”

“Sit down!”

“I am.”

“In your own chair! You’re setting a poor example.”

France returned to his original seat, spotting Egypt’s nervous glancing around the room. “Look, you’re upsetting your child. Egypt has no idea what to do.”

The other just tried to eat his rabbit. “Egypt is fine. Mind your own damn business.”

“England,” he said, and waited for the country to look over. “Ouvrez votre porte...”

Morocco giggled.

“Pour le dieu d’amour.”

“I’m sure what you’re saying is hilarious, but I can’t understand a word of it. If you please, would you refrain from speaking any language that isn’t English at the table.”

“Remember when you said you didn’t mind whether Egypt listened to my singing? That was but earlier today.” He looked about as if to ask the walls, “What could’ve happened between then and now to make you so cross?”

“Well, I tried to explain that to you, but you kept raving about how silly it was that Germany sent me a letter! You still haven’t answered my question, by the way!”

“All right, England!” He rose his voice as well. “If it’s an answer you want...”

The room hushed once again.

And so France continued, “I’m not sleeping with Spain.”

“I should hope so.” He stabbed a bit of meat.

“Because you are my love.” France sat in the seat directly beside England again, and leaned in for another kiss.

Morocco giggled again, and with the atmosphere so heavy, Egypt decided to give a laugh as well. The children knew comic relief when they saw it. To laugh at France might’ve been the only way to lighten the mood. Morocco, having been raised by France, knew to take opportunities to lighten the mood whenever they appeared, and so felt comfortable expressing feelings of joy. Egypt was not so comfortable, but was learning with each argument how to derail a weighted atmosphere.

 

After the younger nations were tucked into bed, England went to dress down into nightwear. It wasn’t too long after when France came in from behind.

“Get dressed,” Said France.

Well, England had one leg in his trousers. “What?”

“We’re going out.”

“No we’re not.”

France opened their shared wardrobe and pawed through his outfits, behaving rather excited, as though he’d never seen them before.

“Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“It’ll be fine. You don’t work tomorrow, and we’re not leaving the house.”

“We’re dressing up to stay home?”

France took out a dark suit and laid it across his arms to admire it. “You won’t let me take you out. So, I’m planning a night for hermits.”

“I’m not a hermit.” He tried to convince himself for a minute, then continued. “I just don’t have the time or the interest to leave the house.”

France put the hanger back and put his suit on the bed, removing his day clothes. “This will be perfect for you. You’ll be in the comfort of your own home, you’ll look nice… England, get ready. We’ll be late.”

“For what?”

“For our date.”

“You said we would be staying home.”

“Oh,” France smiled. “I thought for certain you’d be against it. Of course we can go naked.”

“Good heavens, naked?”

“No one will see us, if that’s what you’re concerned about. But I can’t guarantee I’ll keep my eyes to myself.” He reached out to England, “Think nothing of my hands.”

The other didn’t do much to escape this time, he merely turned his head away as France embraced him. The eldest put his chin on the country’s shoulder, pressing into England’s back, both of them only wearing a shirt. France felt England’s breath under his hold. It was steady and shallow, like how it was whenever England tried to make a decision that would ruin his apathetic composure in one way or another. He knew at that moment England was holding back.

Like any other animal, England was bound to his desires with a burning passion. He needed only to give in and France would fulfill every last need. He supposed he would invite England to speak:

“Or maybe we’ll stay right here.”

“No,” England declined in a small voice. “I’ll go on this date with you.”

 

So, France and England stood in a couple of their finest suits before the first shelf in the library. They stood side by side, admiring the woodwork and books themselves. They each held a glass of wine, compliments of France’s vision. How else would one go on an art tour? There was only one way, and it was to enjoy oneself. Nothing could compare to the elegance and silk that was wine.

England squinted. “I don’t like this one.”

“No? What about it?”

“It’s too busy.”

“Oh, yes,” France agreed.

“I’m constantly looking for a focal point of some kind, but it’s not there, is it?”

“The third shelf from the top appears to have taller books on it. Could that be it?”

England hummed in disapproval. “The rest of them have books just as tall. It’s all over the place, this one.”

“You’re right.” France led them to the next bookshelf and they stood together as before.

They stood silent for a while to admire the art before them.

England stated, “It’s better than the last one, at least. The row of red books adds a nice touch of colour to the piece.”

“I should think so, indeed. I rather like the middlemost row, with their gold binding.”

England nodded. “Yes, that does give it more energy, doesn’t it?”

“Would you buy this one?”

“I wouldn’t go that far. Besides, I wouldn’t know where to hang it.”

France giggled and took a sip from his glass.

“All the pieces in here look the same. There’s no variation with this artist. If I wanted to look at bookshelves I would’ve stayed home and paid a visit to my library.”

France giggled again under his smile. “Would you like to see the next gallery?”

“Quite.” England led them out the room and into the hall.

France took lead and brought their huddle into the next room, which was England’s crafting room. Anymore, it remained vacant, but back in England’s better days he would embroider insects and wildflowers and things. France missed those earlier days when England wasn’t so easily cross. Well, more easily cross than usual. They stood before England’s wall of yarn.

“It’s quite vibrant.” England took a drink.

“It is.”

“I’m liking this new artist already.”

“Does it bother you how the colours are used in rainbow order?”

“No,” England turned to France.

“Well, there’s no variety or greater purpose. The piece simply demonstrates how one would strategically arrange their paints. It’s almost as if the painter copied his workspace onto canvas.”

England squinted at him in silence for a moment. “Shouldn’t you consider the attention to detail? Each colour reflects the one before and after effortlessly. There’s no skip between colours; each one blends into the next until there’s an entire image of every colour imaginable. The use of blending in this piece is fantastic.”

“Indeed.” France took a sip, and as England turned his attention back to the wall France rolled his eyes. Bringing the glass down he asked, “When was the last time you made anything?”

“Of what, Embroidery?”

“What else? It must’ve come to years by now.”

“You still remember? That was before our breach.”

“I remember everything.” France’s voice died down and he watched his glass.

“No, I’ve been keeping myself from crafts.”

“And why? You’re very good at embroidery. What’s convinced you to give it up?”

“I haven’t given anything up, rather I’ve just been excessively engaged.”

France watched him take a sip.

“Let us press on.” England turned to leave when his partner spoke up.

“What troubles could there possibly be? I can not dream of a better time for us, for I can recall none whatsoever. Let us not drabble with false implications, let’s embrace our fortune, England.”

The other looked back with a worried lip.

“Come, finish your wine and I’ll play us a tune. Come with me to our love nest, England. You’ve been deprived more than you know.”

“What’s got you so excited?”

“I haven’t apologised for my lack of intimacy. It is because of me you think I’m still seeing Spain, is it not?”

“Germany made me aware, actually.”

“ _Made you aware_ ,” France mocked. “What does he know? Our love knows no threat of his. Let us celebrate.”

The country took England out the room. They travelled back upstairs to their shared chambers, closing the door and resting their empty glasses. One of their many phonographs sat waiting on an end table in the corner. For the first time in quite a while, it began playing a soft melody. It played sweet instruments of wind, calm and lovely, the way they remembered their times spent in lounges. France stripped his partner down to his socks and garters, England’s hands trembling as he tried to do the same to France. Their breath quickened by the time they were both exposed enough to get to work. England panted on his partner’s shoulder, turning the country and shoving him onto the bed. The eldest welcomed England’s body as it dropped over him, arms at either side of France, caging him.

He begged, “England.”

The other messaged France’s member, staring at him beneath a languid eye. He continued to do so as he lowered himself to the eldest’s lips.

“England,” he sighed between kisses, wrapping fingers around the country’s nape, England’s short hair tickling them. With his free hand, France gave his member a bit of attention as well, aiding England with his performance.

The other jumped from France’s dick to his own as they came closer together, almost touching the both of them at the same time.

France rose from the bed to grind their loins together, having England gasp from under a kiss. The eldest slid his hand from England’s neck down to the country’s rump, and gave it a squeeze.

England gasped once again, grinding forward to run from the touch. He rested himself on France’s hips and pulled away from the country’s lips.

The eldest brought both hands together to stroke England’s member. In turn, England held onto his partner’s fingers, riding along with France’s movements. He watched England’s face grow more flushed as the country stared straight down. He wished they could look at each other for even a moment.

“France.”

“I’m here, love.”

England glanced up at him as if what he’d just said was foreign. Then went on, “I do so fancy your touch.”

“Would you then allow me to have you?”

“I should like to perform this myself, though I am willing now to trade positions.”

France chuckled and rose from the bed, England scooting farther back to sit in his partner’s lap. France kissed England’s face a few rounds and brought his legs together to cradle the country. He snaked his hands round the back of his partner.

England’s chest stirred, his blush growing redder. The eldest dipped a few fingers beneath England’s ass, forcing the other to spew another shameless gasp. He quickly hid his face against France’s neck, panting as the eldest continued to dig deeper.

“France,” he gripped the country’s hands.

One thing England was not particularly fond of about their sex, was how desperate he was for France. He wanted France’s body, his touch, his voice… It was humiliating: He wished he could be a bit more modest about it. He supposed they really didn’t sleep with each other often enough if every time they did England was just as anxious as the last time.

“Is this uncomfortable?”

England tried to control his breathing, “Not at all.”

The eldest pushed and pulled along his partner’s insides, curling his fingers to loosen the hold round him. Though, England was already quite prepared. It was no secret the younger country needed more of this. France guided his member to his partner’s entrance and seeped it inside, replacing his fingers.

England whimpered through his nose before giving a few hard pants, quite ready for them to get on with it. He bounced in France’s lap to get them started.

“I do apologise,” the eldest laughed. “I had no idea you were in such need of my assistance.”

“France, come on then.”

The eldest turned them over, kissing and humming into England’s neck.

“Oh,” he held France’s head.

“England, I do apologise. Let’s sleep together every night.”

“Yes,” he sighed.

France giggled, “You’ve changed so much. You were once quite the prude.”

“You’d think so, only because you were such a whore.”

“Oh, England.” He pulled away to stare down at the country. “Sex is a beautiful thing. It would be a waste to leave it untouched.”

“There’s a time and place for everything, isn’t there?”

“There’s always time to act upon fantasies.” He touched their noses together. “England, that’s something you’ve never seemed to understand. How to indulge in your pleasures.”

“Stop ridiculing me.”

“England, it’s something very few people know how to do. But lucky for you, I am an expert.” He put more emphasis on his thrusts, dragging his tongue passed England’s collar.

“Ohh,” the youngest stressed as if he were losing an argument. He gasped and started his heavy pants once again.

“You just relax, my love.” He moaned in England’s ear. “I’ll do the rest.”

“France, stop saying things like that.”

He sucked on the ear before him, humming onto it.

“Don’t make this into a game. Just stop thinking so much.”

France kissed his jaw, “You are the one thinking too much. It’s time you let it all go.”

“Stop talking altogether, then.”

“I know you enjoy my voice.” He gave England a nibble, “I’ll use it to aide you in your unwinding. Come, England, let it all go.”

“Stop.” He held onto the other’s hips to get more of France inside him.

“Who is this decadent lily?” France kissed the country’s breast a few rounds. “Who blossoms beneath me in my hour of lonesome?” He travelled up and sucked England’s neck. “Who is he that replies to my weeping with effortless charm?”

“Stop. You’re making me ill. If you insist on this drabbling, speak French.”

“Mais oui.”

“France, do that to my neck again.”

He lowered his mouth to the desired spot and sucked.

“Ah,” England gripped the country tighter.

He kissed off the country and moved his lips to a new area. “Ouvrez votre porte…”

“Ah,” England moaned.

“Pour le dieu d’amour…”

“A-are you reciting that rhyme from earlier?”

“Non…”

“Yes you are. I remember you saying that before. I don’t want to understand what you’re saying.”

France smiled, “You don’t understand what I’m saying.”

“That’s not the point. I can tell you’re saying nonsense to me.”

“How would you know whether I’m speaking nonsense? You don’t know what I’m saying.”

England moved his hips with France’s. “Just say something else.”

So, the country spoke French against England’s neck, sucking it on and off as the youngest liked. He kept a slow rhythm going in and out of his partner, messaging England’s member with a free hand, heated breaths pouting against the youngest’s skin.

“France,” he moaned, “Harder.”

The country kept going as if he couldn’t hear his partner.

“France!”

He murmured in his own language, burying his nose under England’s chin.

“Harder, please!” England clenched his fingers round the country’s hips.

He gave an exaggerated moan in response.

“France, I need you. I need you now.”

The other licked all the red marks he’d made on England’s neck and chest.

England sobbed and wrapped his legs round the other, trying to take France’s member by force.

He moaned for a second, then said, “England. It is about the process.”

“I need you,” his partner whined, “I need you now.”

“Oh, England.”

“Harder.” He resorted to a louder tone, “Please, France, harder!”

“Ah,” the eldest moaned at how his partner was so anxious. “I am sorry, England! This is my fault entirely!”

“How is it your fault? I could’ve just as easily invited you to have sex.”

“But you were so caught up in your troubles you wouldn’t have thought to. Indeed, it became my responsibility to keep you sexually active.”

England grunted, “I’m not helpless. If I wanted your sex I would’ve asked.”

“Oh, but you do. Just look at you! You’re wriggling beneath me for an orgasm!”

“Have I really become that deprived?”

France tugged on the head of his partner’s member. “All you need is more of it. We can have sex all the time.”

He made a small noise in protest.

“I’ll help you, my dear. I’ll give you all you want.”

England exhaled in France’s ear as the eldest pounded into him. The bed began squeaking against the floor.

“Is this better?”

“France,” he pulled his arms up his partner’s back to fold them round France’s neck.

“Do you like it?”

England spoke with a breathless voice, “Harder...”

“Goodness,” France tried.

England pouted out his nose.

“Oui…”

He exhaled violently before gasping.

“Oui…”

“Ah-” his throat closed, cutting his cry short.

“Oui…”

“France, yes! That’s it!”

The eldest moved his hand faster along England’s member, keeping up his thrusts. England’s hold round the other kept them grunting in each other's ears.

The bed squeaked with each onward movement, tapping against the wall. England tensed round his partner. His head dug into the covers, chin turning up into the air as it slipped from France’s face. He cried out in needy hums, moaning within his clamped lips, spitting seed onto himself a few rounds.

France came shortly after, beckoning for his partner against England’s neck, turning into it to give the other a few sloppy kisses.

They panted into the quiet symphony on the record. They'd never noticed before but this musical number was quite long. Either that or they were just too desperate to last.

France clung to his partner even after England took his legs down, even after England loosened his grip round France’s neck.

”France…”

”May I speak your language so that you'd understand what I'm about to say?”

He took a couple breaths. “All right…”

”I love you.” France brushed some hairs out of the younger country’s face.

”I think I know that one. What is it in French again?”

”Je t’aime.”

”Yes, I know that one.”

”It sounds better in my language anyway.”

”I wouldn't go that far.”

France kissed him and finally let the country go, rolling onto his back beside England.

After a minute or two England gave a comfortable sigh and shut his eyes.

”That was good.” France agreed.

The youngest was quiet.

“You have quite a way with words: _That’s it_.”

“What would you rather me say? There she blows? Tally ho?”

France giggled at the ceiling.

 ~*~

England stood outside under the shelter of his narrow doorway. The drive was frosted over, but the cold made for a beautiful morning. The meadows across the way were glazed in pastel hues, matching the thin clouded sky. Blues and yellows reflected off trees and fences, the town beyond the hills stood dressed in a low mist, rolls of steam drifted off the grass and into the sunlight.

Alexi road up the trail and into the estate, coming round the drive to meet with England. His bike squeaked to a stop, and he shuffled through his bag. He handed England only a few letters this time, but he had a look on his face that guaranteed Germany’s reply.

England had come to terms with the possibility that it would never come. After all, the letter with the entente information was sent weeks ago. As it happened, Germany had kept him waiting once again. It seemed the country was quite fond of it. However, after taking a look at what he’d been given, England found a letter addressed from Germany. He glanced up at Alexi in shock.

The postman smiled under his scarf, “It’s there?”

“It is. What does he have to say, I wonder. You know, I’ve been fretting about our business plans for quite some time. Matters are about to become plain again, I should hope.”

“Open it.”

England almost did, but he knew better than to discuss country matters with regular people. He dismissed Alexi and retired to the privacy of his office.

“Are you still conversing with him, sir?” His valet, of course, was not fond of the postman. But at least he was at his proper station at that hour. As long as he was following orders, he was entitled to his own opinion.

“Really, what is the matter? He’s only a lonesome postman.”

“I dare say, you share more with him than you do Master Francis.”

Now there was an opinion England would prefer the valet keep to himself. “You dare indeed.”

 

_England,_

 

_I am aware of the purpose of the Entente Cordiale. For the reason that you and France are highly familiar, it is in your best interest that you disband it._

 

_Germany_

He rested his arms on the desk. What was this, then? After a moment of reflection he dropped the letter and leaned back in his chair. What did Germany mean by suggesting such a thing? He wanted England to take back his agreement with France? Why couldn’t he just say so? Why all this running about, putting Morocco and Spain into this mess? Was it to further bribe England, or was everything about Morocco true? This whole thing was nonsense. England needed to get his facts straight.

So, Germany was concerned for Morocco because both Spain and France were guardians of the young nation. He wanted England to keep his nose out of it, so thought it would be best if England not see France or Morocco at all. Was that all Germany was on about? But the Entente Cordiale was to keep England away from Morocco anyway. Why did Germany think it would be better to disband it? That would only allow England better access to the nation. That sounded counter productive.

Perhaps Germany had caught on to England and France’s relationship. Well, even so, why would Germany want to exploit them without purpose? What did Germany want that he would go to such lengths as to publicise a homosexual relationship? Surely, that was the plan; to prevent it from carrying on. Why else would he bring up Spain?

Oh, perhaps Germany wanted both of these things. He wanted what was best for Morocco and for the vulgarity to stop, so used Morocco and Spain as weak points to get what he wanted.

But, of course this wasn’t about England and France. Why would it be? They’d kept their relationship private. How would Germany know of it? Unless France really was flaunting their personal matters. He supposed France had all the time in the world to do so while England sat in his chair. And if that was possible, then it was definitely not out of question that France was still seeing Spain. He knew how manipulative France could get. The country was more or less a master of getting what he wanted from England. No doubt the whole _celebration_ was nothing more but a facade, and England fell captive to his desires and let France do what he wanted.

England tried to keep his emotions from taking course too much. What would it all come to if he began expressing himself shamelessly? He needed to keep his natural composure. Anyway, he first needed to better understand the predicament with Germany before settling with conclusions.

“Sir, if I may.”

England raised his head to the valet. “Yes, what is it?”

“It concerns your wellbeing and your relationship with Master Francis.”

“Yes, go on.”

“Would it be of interest to you to join Master Francis on another outing?”

England paused a moment. “Leave the house?”

“Or the estate, sir.”

“I haven’t been well enough for that for quite some time.”

“Would it be too bold to suggest the remedy for your illness is an outing?”

England sat quiet, turning his gaze to the wall across the way.

 

The sun was warm on his face. England stood with his gloved hands behind his back, a scarf tucked into his coat. Across the way, after a short row of dead bushes, France dozed off to sleep in a chair. A french woman sang through the phonograph beside him on a table. England watched him. So, the reason Germany was writing him was to tell him to get rid of France? That was what it seemed like. When England got straight to it, all he could figure was this: Germany wanted England eradicated from France’s life. He didn’t want England to have anything to do with France. Well, why?

England knew he wasn’t supposed to be thinking this much. The valet knew it was time for him to be well again, and dwelling in negative thoughts was not going to do him any good.

He travelled the short stair down to the garden, where he continued on his way to France. He couldn’t understand the singer, but she sounded in good spirits. Twigs snapped under his shoes. The silent air blew past his face.

He then stood before France.

The eldest opened his eyes, then sprang to attention. “Mon amour!”

“France,” he said bluntly. “I should like to see the town again.”

“After all this time? Do you think in your condition it is right?”

“It would be better for me,” England avoided eye contact, “If I left the estate.”

“Very good,” he praised in a slow manner. Gazing up at his partner with a wide smile.

 ~*~

France took England to a grand restaurant in London. It would’ve been prefered to take a train to Paris, for that was where to have the proper dining experience, however it was much too far for his partner. France settled for the best place in London, which of course compared to some of the worst places in Paris. Though, he supposed the best way to keep an Englishman comfortable was to bribe him with English food.

They sat at a round table in the back, the walls decorated with mirrors and art nouveau reliefs. The high ceilings were made of a green glass, held up with iron beams, much like a conservatory. The glass itself was speckled with painted branches and leaves, giving the impression they truly were amongst a lively garden. England had his back to a mirror, the table lamps and wine glasses of the room reflected behind him. France watched him, arms crossed and head cocked in his signature admirer’s gaze. The country across the way kept his eye on the tablecloth. France supposed the gentle yellow patterns of it were rather intriguing, but wouldn’t England much prefer to look upon France? They were clad in evening tailcoats, with white waistcoats and black bowties. That was far more entertaining than a tablecloth.

After time, England crossed his arms on the table as well, his silver cufflinks winking at France in the candlelight.

“Arthur,” he kept to humanly names in public of course. “You’re quite the dashing young fellow.”

“Thank you.”

“Only the finest should be lucky enough to have you.”

He peeked a glare up at his partner, “What are you implying?”

France giggled.

“I hardly think so.”

“Arthur,” he reached an arm across the way and held the country’s hand. “Arthur, Arthur…”

The youngest pinched his lips and turned away once again.

“Look at you, a fine specimen. Go on, look.”

He followed France’s gesture to the mirror at his side.

“Ah,” the eldest met his gaze through the glass, both of them staring into the wall like a couple of idiots. “You see? Such a pretty boy.”

“This doesn’t interest me.”

“How many fingers have I got on the table?”

England glanced over at his partner’s reflection. “Two.”

The country giggled, “How about my other hand?”

England left the mirror and glanced down at his partner’s actual hand.

“Oh, Arthur. Through the mirror.”

So he glanced down at France’s hand through the mirror. “Now you’ve got four.”

“What number am I concentrating on?”

“How should I know?”

France put a finger to his lips, smiling behind it. “This number is between zero and two.”

“One.”

“But of course.”

England rolled his eyes.

“I am concentrating on one.” He pointed across the table, “You.”

The youngest crinkled his nose in distaste and looked down.

“And? What are you concentrating on?”

“Nothing.”

“The tablecloth?”

He glared up and France again.

The country only laughed and leaned back in his chair, pulling their hands apart. Upon returning to his original posture, he slipped two fingers round the stem of his wine glass, resting his palm on the foot.

England thought he’d distract himself by looking the menu over once more.

“Roast beef?”

“No,” he paused. “Lamb, I think.”

France gave a small cry in mockery.

“Why don’t you order roast beef, then?”

“The same reason I’m not ordering anything.”

England lowered his menu, “Why are we here at all?”

“For you, Arthur.” He started a softer tone, “I wanted to take you to this beautiful restaurant, where you could be captivated by the ambiance, and breathe amongst the rest of our high society… Isn’t this lovely?”

“You hate it here.”

“Somebody didn’t want to make the trip to Paris. Arthur, this is the best restaurant in the area.”

“So then order something.”

France made a slight chuckle, “No!”

“You’ve brought me out here to insult me, haven’t you?”

“Well, this wasn’t about me. You must understand, this night was for you.”

“No, this night was supposed to be for us-”

“No, no, no, no,” France held a hand out to hush him. “I’ve wanted to take you out on a night like this longer than you could imagine. I still do: I should’ve preferred to take you to Paris. I’ve wanted to gaze into your sleepy eye, candlelight caressing your cheek, a smile sitting upon your lips. Such a night was for you to enjoy, while I admire the gentle gleam of happiness you share unto me.”

England tried not to gag.

“What was that, then?”

“What indeed.”

“You accuse me of tormenting you, when really you are the one tormenting me.”

The youngest inhaled, “I never wanted to leave the house!”

“Arthur,” he hushed the country.

England signalled a waiter, having had quite enough of this sitting about business. When the man arrived at their table, France ordered an imported wine and England placed an order of his own. After the waiter left, the two of them sat in a boiling silence.

It wasn’t England’s fault, and the youngest knew it. He would’ve been perfectly comfortable sitting in his stupid chair in the sitting room. The only reason he left was to cheer himself up and flee the depressing state he’d come to adapt from agreeing to this Entente Cordiale. That was the real problem here: The Entente Cordiale. Germany wouldn’t have written him if England had never made that agreement. That was the source of his misery, Germany confusing him with all these additional matters; like whether France was still seeing Spain, or how Morocco was in some sort of danger. It all came down to the entente.

He could live without France. He’d lived without the country for years. England saw himself as a loner anyway. Someone who removed himself from society by choice, not out of fear or obsession or handicap. He could call it all off right there. Germany would leave him alone, he wouldn’t have to worry about Spain, and he wouldn’t have to worry about France’s influence on Egypt.

“Francis,” he began.

“Before you go any further, my intention was not to insult you on our night out.”

“Well, obviously you’ve changed your mind, haven’t you?”

“I want so much to see you happy once again.”

England spoke without thinking too much, “That’s exactly what I want.”

“My first thought was to please your stomach. And I know I cook for you all the time, and you seem to really enjoy it. You should after all. But I thought, perchance, if you ate food to which you’re accustomed, you’d enjoy it that much more.”

“Trying to be selfless, were we? And you couldn’t contain your disgust for the place long enough?”

“I’m not being completely honest with you actually.” He spun his hair, “I really wanted to take you to this little restaurant in Paris. I’ve never been anything short of impressed with every visit, no matter what I order. It’s fabulous, it really is. I wanted to take you there so you could lavish in that same experience. You see what I’m saying?”

“Yes, I’m following your train of thought.”

“But then you refused to board a train. So, my last resort was to find the best place here, hoping it would bring you to a happiness even close to what you’d feel in Paris.”

“You know, I’m not quite sure if you realise when you do this, but you’ve just insulted me again.”

“No,” France cried, “I didn’t.”

“You’ve just implied the best place in London was relatable to the worst place in Paris.”

He paused. “Have I really? I thought I was being careful...”

England rose his voice, “I can’t believe you.”

“Arthur, I’m only poking fun.”

The waiter brought them their wine, pouring them each a glass and setting the bottle on the table. England had enough care in him to give the man his attention, catching a glimpse at the side of the waiter’s face. It wasn't too long after that England lost all interest in the outing and lowered his gaze again. Just then, he realised he’d seen that face before, and looked back up at the man straight away. By then, the waiter was leaving the table, but England swore that man looked just like his postman, Alexi.

France didn't seem to notice his partner’s double take, he was too busy sniffing his wine. “Arthur, let us toast your health.”

England watched the waiter disappear behind a far door before turning his attention to the country across from him. He then raised a glass to mirror France.

“May this cloud over the poor boy pass to someone else. Who would you like to send it to?”

England thought for a moment, still in bewilderment about seeing the postman. “Ireland.”

“May this misery haunt instead Ireland.”

They cheered and took a sip.

“It's going to take more than your wine if you're still trying to make me feel better.”

“Think of it this way, if you'd only agreed to take the train, none of this would've happened.”

“No, if you hadn't removed me from my house this wouldn't have happened.”

“You need to leave the house, Arthur. Its one of the necessities of living. Don't you like living?”

“I should think I would like it more if you weren't.”

The two of them continued arguing between small talk, both working for the opposite of what the other wanted: France trying to persuade him into a happier state, and England trying to get them back on topic so he could call the whole thing off. After some time, the waiter returned with England’s lamb.

France rolled his eyes, pouring himself another glass.

“I can't think anymore. This is your fault. You know that.”

“Forget the letter. It’s as simple as that.”

England could’ve argued on but he was distracted by how slow the waiter was setting his food on the table. It was as if the man was trying to listen in to their conversation. England looked up at the Alexi impersonator until they met eyes. At which time, the waiter shied away from the plate and left the two alone. He looked an awful lot like the postman indeed.

“Oh, it’s that simple, is it? Maybe for a freeloader like yourself.”

France creased his brow. “What's so troubling about it? Just that Ludwig told you I was still seeing Spain?”

“One of the reasons, yes.”

“I promise I'm not seeing Spain.”

“Oh,” England mocked, “Then I believe you.”

“Well, what else is troubling you about it?”

He lowered his voice to a murmur. “Ludwig only began writing me after the Entente Cordiale. I know he's trying to weasel information out of me.”

“Like what? What could he do?”

“Forget the threat, it's the purpose I'm after. Why is Ludwig writing me at all? To collect the children? To-”

“What makes you think he’s after the children?”

England tried to keep his frustration to a whisper, ”Because the very reason for the entente was to distinguish custody of the children!”

“All right,” he let his partner regain himself before continuing. “So, what would be his reason for wanting our children in particular? Aren't there plenty other nations to occupy?”

“He told me it was because your child was being grossly neglected.”

“But you can see for yourself that's a lie. How did he think he could get away with that?”

“No, you and Spain have shared custody. That's two different cultures influencing the child. It's wrong.”

France giggled, “Like Hell it is. Write him back. Tell him Morocco will be just fine. Tell him Morocco doesn't like sausage anyway.”

England sat in bewilderment as he watched his partner laugh. “How can you be so relaxed? Ludwig is after your child.”

“Oh, no he’s not. He's just sharing a dream of his. It won't happen. Never.”

England spoke exceptionally low, ”He threatened to expose our relationship.”

The country stop moving, staring England straight in the eye. “How did he become aware of that?”

“Have you been flaunting us? I suspected it was your doing-”

“Arthur, how could you think that?”

“Well, why does he know?”

“I haven't the slightest. Maybe he's been tracking our activity. Does he know anyone on the inside? Your servants?”

“They're all English.” He went on, “I’ve had them background checked.”

“Has someone ratted us out?”

“Spain? Is he jealous of me?”

“Arthur, please quit with your moaning.”

“We need to be open to every possibility. Who does Ludwig know? The milkman?”

“The gardener?”

“Someone in Parliament?”

“The postman?”

England sat in a stupor, eyeing the table lamp. It couldn't be the postman. It would be too convenient. But that would explain why the man was so nosy. It would further explain why his valet disliked him so.

England took his partner by the hand. In a breathless panic he whispered, “France!”

“The postman?”

“I wish I could say no. But he's never seen you, has he? How would he know?”

“I've seen him time and again. Perhaps all he was looking for was proof. Ludwig knew of the entente and so asked the postman simply to catch me round your estate.”

“Who did you tell about the entente?”

“Arthur, that's public record.”

“But he's not affiliated with us!”

“Arthur, that doesn't matter. You know this. But it's fine: If the postman is his only resource, he'll soon come to understand it was all coincidence. As far as Ludwig knows, I was round your estate robbing your roses.”

“But he came to the house.”

France choked, ”Ludwig?”

“He saw Morocco playing in the drive. Morocco isn't my child.”

“Well, maybe I was bringing Morocco round to play with Egypt.”

“That's exactly what I told him.”

“Well done, Arthur.” He put his freehand atop England’s as he leaned in. “Very good.”

“So, as far as he knows, we’re accommodating to our children’s wellbeing.”

“Right.”

“Except he now has reason to believe I'm influencing Morocco as well.”

“But you can't, that's the entente’s purpose. Does Ludwig know nothing?”

England tried to keep his anger down again. “So then, you tell me what Ludwig wants!”

“I don't know.”

England pulled away until he was leaning back in his chair.

“The only thing I can figure is he wants custody of the children.”

“That's what I thought.” England sat up to keep the conversation private. “But wouldn't that be counterproductive to his reason? By occupying Morocco, he would then be influencing a third culture. With mine, if there is any, it would be a fourth.”

“Maybe he's thinking about brainwashing the child. In that the only culture in the end would be his own.”

“Am I overthinking this? Is there really nothing to worry about?”

France pushed his hand towards England for his partner to take it again. “It sounds like a lost cause. Ludwig won't gain custody of Morocco: He won't disband the entente, because it's nothing more than a guideline of ours regarding how we raise the children. I'm not seeing Spain, I promise this to you, England. And he can't threaten our relationship because there isn’t enough evidence proving it exists.”

England looked at him with a small frown, the lamp leaving a glint in his eye

“Does that help?”

After another minute, England looked down with a faint smile. “I suppose you're quite right.”

“Of course I am, Arthur.”

“Germany only knows as far as the entente. Everything else is filled in by suggestion. He can’t accuse us of anything based on that.”

France took his hand back so his partner could eat. He gave his wine more attention in the meantime.

After that, England was much happier, and they could enjoy their time together. They laughed, mocked other countries that sought to make their lives miserable, drank lots of wine… It had been a long time since France had seen England so relaxed. The country was stunning. Looking at him with those passionate green eyes. Grinning at everything he said as if France could do no wrong. Living with less care, out to conquer the world. Back to normal for once. Though France hoped the country would put all that energy into something other than bloodshed. Maybe just some really good sex.

 

The next morning, England pulled himself out of bed with a languid smile, France sleeping beside him. They'd had the most delicious night in quite some time. He was sore all over, but oh, he loved it.

He dressed himself and danced through the halls, having the butler brew him some tea. While it steeped, England took Egypt by the hands and lifted the child off the ground. He spun Egypt round as Morocco watched with great jealousy. England gave the other child a quick spin as well, bearing in mind the entente was still in place. That aspect hadn't changed.

When the butler poured him his tea, England sat in the solarium to drink it. This room wasn't much bigger than his office. All the chairs faced the centre table, and much of the room was made up entirely of windows.

Everything frosted over last night. The plants glimmered in the sun, stuck in their ice capsules.

After time, France called his name over and over as he wandered round the house. England called back each time until his partner was able to find him.

France skipped into the room and came round to sit on England’s lap. He gave the younger country a big wet kiss, pushing him back into his chair.

England’s cup rattled on the saucer as he tried to keep it steady. His head sank into the top of the cushion, stretching the fabric as it tugged the wood frame of the chair. France messaged his partner round the neck, running his fingers behind England’s ears and down to his collar. He brushed his thumbs against England’s jaw, turning his hands to fit against the man’s structure. With the lower love of his hand, France pushed up on his partner’s chin, tilting England’s head skyward.

“France,” he exhaled.

The eldest replied, “England.”

He held the cup still behind France, hugging round the country with his outstretched arms. He moaned to release a bit of his anxiety, having been taken captive by France.

All the while, his partner kept replying with “England,” as if basking in the rediscovered love between them.

 ~*~

They took trips into town, peeking through the windows of edgy shops, admiring the setup of their display cases. These shops were supposedly the ones paving the way to new fashion heights, expensive and oddly tailored in the eyes of lower society. Only people who knew fashion understood the meaning and importance behind the _ridiculous_ outfits. People like France. Of course there were richer individuals who shared opinions with the lower class. People like England. France tried to persuade his partner to think like a designer, explaining the details put into the dresses and suits, how looking a certain way meant you belonged to that community, how wearing your hat crooked or barely on your head made all the difference between a trashy or trendy person.

They visited art galleries featuring new concepts to the creative process. Paintings of earthy tones, landscape and portrait, daily lives of families happy together and the deeper meaning within single model works. It was a time of light art, capturing the joy of life and those with whom we share it. France rested a hand on England’s shoulder. He would've liked to give more attention to the man, more kisses and spanks, but they were in public. Think nothing of goosing, England would certainly give them away.

They spent day after day enjoying their youth and wealth, keeping out of the house as long as they could. The children stayed home with the governess of course. England never once spoke of Germany or the troubles that came with the country’s letters. He was simply at peace, following along with all of his partner’s ideas. It must've been the sex. France had decided they would sleep together as often they could to prevent another deprived spell from England. From what France could tell, it was working. From the way England looked at him with a dreamy smile, he knew it was working. From the way England pulled him into the abyss of their room, he knew it definitely must've been working.

Months passed, and with each opportunity France bought his partner something nice, something he wanted to see England in or have England own. Things like silver cufflinks, flowery perfumes, new drapes, imported tropical bouquets, and cigars. In return, England bought things he thought France could use or things France would've bought for himself if only there weren't so much England needed. Things like new suits, bathing oils and salts, hair products, hunting supplies, and gardening materials.

They lived merrily for quite a while until England’s butler presented him with a telegram. He was to see the Prime Minister.

As it turned out, Germany’s army had grown stronger and it had come to the point where it posed a threat to England's naval power.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! There’s a lot of stuff going on...  
> All I wanted was to write post victorian fruk, but got caught up in world history.
> 
> I don’t know ヘ(´－｀;)ヘ  
> I’m doing my best to balance the romance with the plot.
> 
> Thanks for reading


	2. Chapter 2

1905

 

Winter was just about over. Soon they would be able to drive without the cold breeze on their faces. This was one of the reasons they preferred venturing by foot. Though nothing could compare to a sunny drive through the hills and valleys, under shaded tunnels of trees with speckles of light running up the automobile, over stone bridges with the dark water rippling below full of pond life.

England awaited that time again, when France would dose off to sleep in the passenger seat. The motor rumbling in front of them. It was a pleasant time, not only because his partner would stop talking, but also the feeling of being close to someone, being intimate, having their trust, was not a feeling England experienced often. Being the one to take France home while the eldest slept, having his partner’s loyalty, knowing that even after France was home with him they'd still be together. This wasn't an order, there was no threat, there would be no consequence if they were to separate… France wanted to be there with him. There was something magical about that.

For the time being until spring, England would just have to occupy himself with Germany’s growing army. What a busybody that country. Why, it was only days ago when Germany came round to rant about Morocco’s well being. Now he was building a stronger army. He was trying to become a Great Power, as it were: Any country with a great enough military threat or international influence was eligible of such a title. At the moment there were four: France, Russia, Austria-Hungary, and of course, Great Britain. No power was stronger than the latter. However, if Germany was creating new battleships, England would need to as well to remain the largest and most diverse sea empire. So, England made plans to visit the Ministry of Defence back in London. He packed to stay at a hotel and readied to leave the next morning, much to his partner’s disapproval.

“Why? You can make all the preparations you like by phone.”

“You know very well the lines aren't secure as they’re made out to be. Anyway, I'd much prefer to speak to Her Majesty in person.”

“Well, then let me come along.”

England smirked at his partner from across the bed, remembering the night before. “You, in London?”

“I'll stay in the hotel. I'll keep the bed warm for your return.”

“You'll get anxious. I know you. You'll start to wander the hotel and get into trouble. You'll meet people and converse-”

“Such a horror.” France mocked.

“We can't be seen sharing a room. I won't risk it. You'll stay here.” He shut his suitcase.

“I'll get my own room, then. I'll send letters under your door with my kiss on each one.”

“You'll do no such thing.”

“I'll dress as a woman and follow you, then. No one would suspect a thing, and we could share a room.”

England glanced up at his partner in shock. “Do you have any shame at all? I’m a public official. I can't be seen inviting women into my hotel room. I need to keep up appearance.”

“Better women than men, don't you think?”

“I'm not married. London knows that. If I'm seen with anyone, it'll ruin my good standing.”

France walked round the bed to England. “Then we’ll get married.”

“No! That's out of the question.”

France took his partner’s hands and held them behind England’s back, embracing the country. “Don't go. You will always have the strongest army. Why bother with it? Just because Germany’s catching up? You take too much pride in this.”

“I won't have the strongest army for too much longer if I stay here.” He fought to free himself and France let him go.

“Don't leave.” He reached for England’s face. “Don't go without me.”

The youngest turned straight into his partner’s hands, finding his cheeks caught in France’s hold, a gentle hand on either cheek.

“England,” his partner spoke as if there were something about the matter England would never fully understand. “You concern yourself with the stupidest things.”

“I'm leaving first thing in the morning. You're staying here.”

France chuckled, “Why are you doing this? You’re already the greatest power. It takes more than building a few more battleships to compete with that. Germany doesn't stand a chance. Just stay here.”

“If he's upgrading his weapons I must do the same. Would you get off me? You really have no idea when it comes to military, do you?”

France pressed their heads together, grumbling in his partner’s face. “Oh, England! You obsessed little thorn in my side!”

“I'll be back in a few weeks! Quit your whining!”

France pulled back and continued from there. “This isn't how you keep a relationship, you know.”

England grunted. “I need to build up my naval power! Do you think I'm leaving you because I want to? Well of course you'd make this about yourself-”

“You don't need to do anything at all! Your unstoppable, you're Great Britain!”

“Germany’s going to-”

“Oh, it's Germany! Oh, whatever are we going to do?”

England thought back to the Franco-Prussian war. A war that left France traumatised of Germany’s military. “You only mock the country now because I'm offering my protection. You’d never think so lightly of Germany if it weren't for the entente.”

“That's rubbish-”

“Now you can spend less time on military and more time loafing about my estate. Well, one of us needs to stand guard or we’ll lose everything.”

France took his hands away, a condescending smile across his lips.

“It may only be the title of Great Power Germany’s after, but with military threat comes implication of war. I cannot simply laze about with you, letting Germany take authority over the world.”

“Or _you,_ rather.”

England paused, then took steps towards his suitcase, watching France. “Well, exactly. Being the greatest power, I assume authority. If Germany ranks above me he’ll assume this position. So yes, by threatening me, he threatens the world.”

“Oh, you couldn't care less about the world. All you want is to remain the greatest power.” France walked to the door.

“Whether or not that's true, if Germany’s army surpasses mine, we’ll be at a disadvantage if war breaks out.”

“You really think Germany plans to go to war with you?”

“It's not out of the realm of possibility. Especially if he's threatening my naval power. Why else would he build up his army?”

France leaned against the door, arms crossed. “Maybe he simply wants the title.”

“I'm leaving in the morning,” he said over.

“Very well. You’ve always been particular: Tinkering with this or that when nothing’s broken. Proud of what you accomplish, solely because you know you can do it at all, regardless if anyone asked for it…”

England set his suitcase by the chair, next to his coat and hat.

“You know, that's how you became so great: Pride, selfishness…”

“I give you permission to leave, then.”

France continued his languid glare across the room, frozen on his partner’s turned body. Were they breaking up? Was England so dedicated to his military that he would brush France to the side? Was he so selfish to send his partner away simply because France didn’t offer the same protection? Because France had different priorities? Because he was a _freeloader?_

“Sleep in the guest room.”

At that moment, all went still in France. His mind quieted as he returned to the present, to reality. England wasn't talking about the entente, he was telling France not to sleep with him. The eldest had jumped to conclusions, it seemed. For a minute, France felt he’d lost everything. Like he had something to feel guilty about. Like maybe he’d finally pushed England too far. In that slight minute after England had told him to leave, France was reminded of how fragile it all was: How England was far too impulsive for a relationship, how France was out on a limb in trying to control him like this. England wasn’t an agreeable country… He didn't have friends… This was the only romance he’d ever experienced… He was more or less a wild animal that France had trapped and was trying to care for against the ways of nature. Like looking after a bear that would eat you to save itself. It didn't need teaching. It knows how to climb, to hunt, to swim, to survive. It has natural instincts. It doesn’t need you.

France turned round and opened the door to leave. He supposed he’d just have to wait for England to come home.

 

This little obsession England had with his military toys left France with a lot of free time. Just as England was happy again, the country left to waste time indulging himself with his naval power. Why waste time on armies? England would always be the strongest country and England knew it. He was just stubborn about needing a significant gap between how much of a threat his power imposed compared to another. Germany wasn't even on the charts yet. Before he would ever dream of competing against Great Britain, he would need to surpass France, Russia, and Austria-Hungary. Honestly, what was England so worried about?

Well, France was home alone. He spent time with the children, getting to know the governess and whatnot. She told him things about the children he never knew: How Egypt liked digging for little treasures and avoided speaking too much, while Morocco liked spending time making lists and had no trouble holding a conversation. The governess herself enjoyed singing in her free time, which France was delighted to hear. He asked how familiar she was of Emma Calvé, a famous opera singer of whom France was quite fond. One thing led to another, and soon they were both sitting round the little table in the back garden, listening to a phonograph. The children were running loose amongst the hedges playing catch. They would be found again at supper. They shared the sweet melody of Ms Calvé as the sun set over the near trees. France got to know more about the governess, including her name. They actually had quite a lot more in common than France would’ve thought.

So, he and Nellie spent a lot of time together after that. As she held handkerchiefs to the children’s noses while they blew, France talked with her about wildflowers. As she taught the children how to divide fractions, France sketched her from across the room. As she hurried to bed, giggling while she ran from her new admirer, France sang her a lullaby from outside the room, having been locked on the wrong side of the door. He and Nellie were silly like that.

“Oh, Master Francis!” She would shout as he fiddled with her hair.

“You’re making me blush, Master Francis!” She would say as he took her hand for a walk.

“Do stop it, please, Master Francis!” She would call as he finished reading her a poem.

Nellie loved to giggle and she was very good at it. Being with someone so responsive was a breath of fresh air. France nearly forgot how it felt to have someone so interested in him. He hardly put any effort at all into entertaining the governess, but she smiled and ran and pushed him and laughed… And she made him feel anything but guilty. For one thing, France was still upset with England: The country didn’t need to bother himself with armies. Now France was left without a companion for weeks. He had every right to find comfort in the governess. What else was France to do? Sit patiently until his partner came back? Certainly not! He had an obsession of his own, and if England went ahead and indulged in his naval power, France wasn't about to hold back with Nellie.

He sat beside her in the grass, both of them watching over the children from farther up the hill. Egypt squatted at the water’s edge while Morocco performed a few cartwheels. The grass was getting tall again with March arriving. The air would remain cold for a while longer though. Nellie sat on a blanket she’d brought out from her room. It was thin and plain, just like her. France rested on his arms, lounging quite close to her on the same blanket.

“Would you tell me,” asked Nellie, “Why you and Master Arthur call each other England and France upon occasion?”

“Well, of course he’s English. So I call him England. In return, he calls me France.”

“I knew it the reason. It's rather humorous, isn't it? The both of you representing the country you come from.”

“Oh yes.” France smiled to himself.

“It's almost as if you've degraded one another from man, the way you tease. If I may be so bold to say, there must be a long history between the two of you.”

“Longer than you could ever imagine. As far as keeping pleasant relations with the English, we French would call a year without dispute a miracle. Arthur and I have been friends since our youth. It's just a shame there are no medals for such a sport. You might’ve been looking at an olympian.”

Nellie shook her head at the pond down the way, laughing at how France could be so mean to his friend and yet be welcome on the property. She quickly gave him her attention again after a short while. “Tell me more about your country. I’ve always dreamed of seeing it.”

“Would you like to, ma chérie?”

Nellie’s eyes widened in fear, knowing perfectly well France believed in romance above all else and was more than willing to swipe her from work to board a train. He was quite impulsive actually, and Nellie couldn’t afford to sacrifice her occupation as governess. But how she longed to go. France could read her silent begs straight off her trembling lips. Before she could force a most regretful decline, France spoke up once more:

“Then let us leave no ground untouched. Allow me to guide your delicate trickle over every morsel of beautiful France.”

The crook of his brow, along with his gesture to recline deeper into the hillside, gave Nellie the brightest blush France had seen in quite a long time. She knew at that moment that he wasn’t talking about the land. Her look of shock quickly became an expression of great horror, as she rose from the blanket to get away from him.

“Master Francis!”

He smiled up at her as the governess panted and fanned herself with her little hands.

“Please! I mean- We can’t! Oh, dear me, Master Francis! W-what are you saying?”

“Nellie,” he got on one knee and reached for her. “You’re an extraordinary young women. Such a white lily, you have yet to taste the sweet red of a deeper flower.”

She held her face, a soft sunset behind her. “No! Oh, dear me, Master Francis!”

“Nellie, my soul beckons you in as the clouds to sea after twilight. Your nature is true as day, a babe of purity over shame.”

“Master Francis..!”

“This night is ours, Nellie. A passage to our budding garden of desire. Take this drop of an offering and nourish the deprived ivies round our ankles. Nellie, take me with you as you bloom, that I may drink you for-”

Then, she slapped him straight across the face.

France sat back down, a rumbling anger inside his chest. He thought back to how England could leave on a whim to enjoy some time alone, while France was left with no companionship for weeks. It wasn’t fair. This isn’t how relationships work: All take and no give. Maybe France wouldn’t be here when England came back.

The governess hurried down the hill where she joined the children. As she squatted beside Egypt amongst the reeds, Morocco ran to her side and presented her with some flowers. Now looking at the younger nations, France settled down. He didn't want to admit it, but Nellie’s refusal was for the better. After all, he’d only recently convinced England he was no longer seeing Spain. If he was going to make himself out to be a loyal partner, France needed to control himself. In any case, sleeping with the governess wouldn’t solve anything: He would only be satisfied for so long before he’d want England back. The truth of the matter was this: He needed his stupid little roast beef. Even if France was still upset about being stranded and was set on getting back at England one way or another.

It just wasn’t fair, that was all. England was away, happy as a clown; and France was home, left with nothing to do but wait. France may not have been addicted to building an army, but he was quite reliant on intimacy. He and England finally had a proper sex life and one of them had to go and spoil it with an unnecessary work trip.

France journeyed over to the others, Nellie covering her smile as she avoided eye contact. He expressed his deepest apologies to her, making certain Nellie understood the offer was no longer standing. Even so, the governess couldn't wipe the smile off her face. She really was quite an easily flattered girl. Charming too. Nellie accepted his apology, though she would never forget his offer. France took his leave after that, accepting a bouquet of flowers of his own from Morocco.

 

The country entered England’s room. The one he’d been banished from. He slipped into something more comfortable and sat on his partner’s side of the bed. England wouldn’t mind, would he? Not if he never found out. France dug through his pajamas for his dick, tugging at the head of it a few rounds. He imagined having England’s head between his legs, blond hair scratching along France’s thighs. England’s tongue on him, stretching from parted lips to lap at France. Green eyes glancing up at him.

France began pumping himself under a heated grip. The room was cold, and his sweaty hand wasn’t enough to keep his dick wet. If it were humid out, that would be another story. France spit on his hand and coated himself until he was slipping up and down his dick without the slightest resistance. It would do at least. It wasn't anything like England’s mouth. France sighed and took heavy blinks, working himself sensitive. He saw England nodding with his mouth full, eyes at half mast with desire, kneeling on the floor without his trousers. He saw England touching himself even though France told him not to. He punished England by taking his dick away, turning his body from the country’s mouth. England whined and chased after France’s member, crawling along the bed to keep up with the elder country’s legs. France imagined telling him over not to touch himself. England nodded and was offered France’s dick again.

This was but a fantasy, obviously: England would never be so appealing as to long for France’s penis so. But England wasn’t here. He would never know about his ghost playing with France in such a non-English manner.

As such, France saw himself scratching England’s chin, pulling on it in long, slow motions. England swallowed, moaning round his partner.

 _Good boy,_ the eldest praised.

Coming out of his fantasy for a moment, France added more spit, moving along himself at a faster pace. He was so needy, he couldn't believe it. Maybe he’d caught England’s illness of being deprived for too long. Even his breathing was hard then, and he licked his lips with how dry they’d become from panting.

England whined, _mmm!_

He then lingered on how England might whine. Well, in an alluring manner, not the way he always did. France thought how his partner might whine as if England was begging to be finished. His little roast beef might whine like a predator, his sexual gratifications before him for the taking. France liked the thought. The proof pulsed under his hand.

England opened his mouth and licked the head against the back of his tongue, exhaling on France.

 _Oh yes,_ France’s shoulder’s tensed. _Oh yes…_

The youngest sighed as he trembled with desire. Moaning for France, _Auh..!_

 _My love,_ he spoke in his own language, _My beauty… This passion from your lip of pink is a murderous elixir._

England locked eyes with him, tired and full of desire, wanting nothing more than to have France inside him.

The eldest ran a hand over his partner’s head, cradling his fingers behind England’s neck. _But you mustn’t put an end to this tyranny, my love, for I shall have to beg for it…_

England closed his lips round the eldest once again, panting through his nose. He sucked the end of France’s member as long he could before ripping away. _France,_ he crawled onto his partner’s lap. _France!_

_My love._

England whined, _Please, no more..! I want you to take me now, please!_

France imagined giving in to his little roast beef’s plea, and had England’s ghost sit down on top of the member between them.

The youngest held France’s shoulders as he bounced, mouth open in utter satisfaction. _Ah,_ he moaned to the ceiling.

_My dear, look at me._

England did as he was told. So obedient. He took heavy breaths as he moved faster on top of France. His face was beating red, a mixture of embarrassment and overpowering lust.

_Oh, England. Your drawers were never so hot._

His partner gasped. _I want you! Please take me, right now! Just take me!_

France squeezed himself as he pumped harder, imagining how England would tighten round him as he became more desperate. _Careful, my love. We wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself._

 _France!_ He cried as his fingers held firm round the eldest, pulling their chests together. _Hurry, please!_

_I understand. It is more than you can bear. I too have been waiting for this moment. To embrace you upon your return. O what shame, it's been far too long since we’ve seen each other._

_France…_

The eldest worked his hand to resemble one of England’s orgasms, squeezing himself in short gestures as he continued along his dick.

_Ah, France..!_

He drew a harsh exhale and gritted his teeth, gasping through the slit of his mouth. He felt himself getting dangerously close. France imagined his partner overcome by pleasure; taking long sighs, lips parted, breath shaking, maybe sweaty…

 _Aah,_ moaned England, _Aah..!_

He repeated the ghost’s pleas over and over in his head to ride out his own orgasm, grunting under his breath. The rush he felt was powerful, curling his back inward for quite some time. He must've truly been deprived. His seed shot straight onto his neck, France pulsing with his swollen member. He shot a couple more rounds after that, each one bringing a heavy sensation of pleasure, leaving France desperate for the next. England’s ghost called his name over, forced by his captor to experience the longest orgasm known to man.

The eldest broke from his fantasy then, suddenly quite aware that he was alone. He pumped the last of his excitement dry and propped his wrist on a leg, hunching over as he hung his head.

He couldn't stand it. He wanted England back. He deserved some company in this time of riches, they both did. There was no threat. England had no excuse to supply more naval power. He should've been home with France. What an idiot. The youngest was probably just trying to get away from it all. How silly that a few days ago England was set on staying home. He only left when it was convenient for himself, France supposed. Well, was it their relationship? Goodness no: England loved sex, and that was all they really did. Why would he leave just when they’d started a new chapter in their sex life? Was it foreplay? Was the reason for leaving France alone for so long merely a plan to get the eldest horny beyond belief? Such that upon England's return their love making would be that much better? Yes, that made perfect sense.

France wiped his hand on his sleeping attire and crawled into England’s bed. If anything were to stain from his come, good riddance: He could use another nightgown, and who knows how long England had this bed spread. Just for the fun of it, he slept on England's side, imagining how the country would react to France’s mess.

~*~

The slot on the front door was installed specifically for the postman to drop mail through, so France never understood what possessed England to wait outside for it. Unless England just really liked seeing the postman. In any case, France had no desire to meet the man, and so simply had the butler collect the envelopes from the floor. Was it strange that England wasn’t here to answer the door? France didn’t care; it was none of the postman’s business. He can’t expect England to wait up for him every day. Now that the postman was assumed to be a spy, France had even more reason to dislike him.

Oh, when was England coming back? It had been nearly a fortnight already. How long did it take to order some new boats? Did he think France never built an army? Was he aware that France knew this amount of time spent on defence was unrealistic? At least keep the roleplay believable.

France mosied about the estate, admiring the greenery of March. Most of the trees were still bare, with their long branches twisting skyward. Yellow daffodils were popping up all over the place. A light fog rested round the valleys, seeping into the groves. France picked a trail and followed it until he’d finished a complete tour of the back gardens. The blue morning came peeking over the house as France arrived at the back door. By then, the children were out of bed playing somewhere. They always snuck out at this hour, perhaps even earlier. The two young nations were always so anxious to leave for the outdoors. France had that much in common with them. Or Morocco rather: He wasn't supposed to be connecting with Egypt, now was he? The whole entente was rather silly, but France needed it if he wanted to remain Morocco’s guardian. Otherwise, England would occupy both nations. Who would stop him? Spain would certainly try. Oh his stupid little roast beef thought he owned everything.

France turned a corner to the front of the house, shocked to find Morocco seated on the drive with Germany looming overhead. What was that country doing here? What was he doing with Morocco? France tried to push on to catch Germany in the act, but his legs wouldn't move. Instead, he found himself leaving the scene, stepping backward until he was behind the corner of the house again. His heart was thumping in his chest. Was he scared? Even though he needed to protect Morocco? Would he simply wait here until the country left? What if Germany never did? Or what if Germany took Morocco with him? France needed to intervene, but the more he thought about it he became more and more uneasy. Why would he be scared? He was one of the most powerful countries in the world.

“You’re quite independent.” Said Germany to the young nation. “You sit all alone out here each time I see you.”

France steadied his breath to hear better, holding the wall for support.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d suspect you under no foreign rule. What if I made you an offer? Yeah? How would you like to improve our commerce?”

France held his breath. What was happening here? It seemed Germany was still on about getting involved with Morocco. Well, German-Moroccan trades were already open, but what was the meaning of making them stronger? It didn't sound like he wanted custody of the child, rather he was trying to gain a sort of trust or higher influence. England had it wrong. The initial thought was that Germany wanted full control of Morocco, but now France saw that all Germany wanted was to offer better support. Perhaps he only told England he was concerned for the child’s well being to catch everyone off guard. Sneak around behind the scenes, as it were. Then he could destroy Morocco’s well being himself. Not that any of the current countries watching Morocco were harming the young nation…

What did Morocco have that Germany wanted? Improving commerce entailed the two would trade on a larger scale. More money would go into trading, for one thing. Or perhaps Germany wanted to export something to Morocco. Something more serious, like weaponry. (Seeing as Germany was expanding his military). Either way, it went against the current German Foreign Policy established back in 1871: The country’s strategy for dealing with matters outside his borders involved keeping out of situations that concerned numerous European countries at a time, such as the shared custody of Morocco by Spain and France. Germany wouldn't dare involve himself. In the first place, by doing so he would lose the trust of many countries: They would all suspect him of being up to something. Once a foreign policy was placed, countries were to follow and respect it. Not to mention they were publicised. Was Germany really so careless as to make enemies with half the world? France couldn't believe the country would be so stupid, Germany must have a trick up his sleeve.

Morocco agreed, and after some additional exchanges, Germany took leave in his automobile.

~*~

England finally came home, entering the house with a smug expression that had triumph written all over it. The butler removed England’s coat and the country came marching into the sitting room. It was a little after tea time, but no matter, he had some brewed anyway. Sitting back down in his chair across the large window, he became reacquainted with his domestic lifestyle. It wasn't until later that afternoon when he decided to see France. He was much too busy basking in how glorious he was for having the largest sea empire, or how clever he was for taking such a holiday from his home to build an army, or how wealthy for producing so many warships and living on such a grand estate, or how handsome, or generous for allowing France to- oh yes, where was France?

As it turned out, the eldest was out in the hunting grounds, resting in a gazebo. England was pointed in that direction by a valet who’d readied France for gaming. There he was, the lonely fellow, gazing onto the pond from his perch, leaning over the railing in his new hunting gear.

France turned at the sound of grassy footsteps, and was delighted to see England walking towards him. Though France had a strange way of acting like it. He appeared more seductive than anything; flattening his brow and smirking. He put his supplies down on the wood of the gazebo and strutted into England’s arms.

 

Of course, the first thing France wanted to do was have sex. And why not? It was the country’s nature to be needy, especially when someone so charming as England was offering his body. The youngest had worked for weeks straight, it was time for some relaxation again. England followed his partner to their shared room, which he gave France permission to re-enter, and they disrobed one another.

He’d expected France to still be cross with him, the two of them having left on quite an ugly note. Suppose time truly was a healer of all wounds. Suppose France was just that needy. Either way, England wasn't still on about it. And whether or not France was, the eldest was sitting on the bed with his bare legs open in front of England.

“Would you use your mouth?”

The standing country took a moment to reconfigure, not sure he’d been reading the situation correct up to now. “I beg your pardon.”

“Would you please?”

“Would I,” repeated England, “Use my mouth?”

“Yes,” the eldest came off the bed to take his partner by the chin. “Those pretty lips glossed in longing, caged by etiquette.”

As France took a seat once again England felt himself lowering with his partner’s grip, chasing the vanishing warmth, and adjusting his posture to kneel before the bed.

“Let me free you, love. There is so much power, such passion... It festers inside you. I see it in your eyes. Unleash what society has smothered, let your body feast upon its desires. There is no one to stop you now.”

It was true, England had so much potential… He was the strongest in all of the world… No one compared… And although he was already at the top, he had so much more to bring… He could be even stronger… And no one could stop him now…

With a fire of adrenaline and pride in his chest, the younger country stuck France’s member in his mouth.

The other scratched England’s chin with a finger. His pet wasn't touching himself the way France saw in his fantasy. If he was going to recreate his vision, that needed to happen. But how? If the plan was to keep England from touching himself, France couldn't invite the country to do so. Why wasn't his pet touching himself anyway? Was he not overcome by France’s beauty?

“How great is your naval power now? Does it rival no one? Is there no country so bold as to challenge the legendary England? Such victory deserves reward.” He took the youngest’s free hand and dropped it over the side of the bed. England was quick to catch on and moved his hand to his own member, stroking it like a pet. That was better. Now all France had to do was bring his partner’s attention to something else, let England get needy and turn to putty in the eldest’s hand, before restricting England from both dicks. Wouldn't that feel empowering?

So, France brought up a brand new topic. He would express how much he’d missed England. How he’d longed for England’s return with every passing hour. How lonely he'd been without England there to kiss him.

The youngest pulled his mouth away and began climbing France as if to push the country onto his back. “I want inside you.”

France held himself up as England crawled on top of him, knees on either side of the eldest country’s hips. This wasn't right. The fantasy wasn't supposed to play out like this. He needed to reel it back in. “My darling, as much as I’d love for you to take me as you please, I should much prefer you use your beautiful lips.”

“You’ve not a clue what you want. You're beside yourself from grief. You need me to take care of you.”

“No,” France pushed his torso into England’s, unwilling to lie down. “I'm not to the point that I require your full control over myself. If you please, would you kindly tend to that bit of flesh you've abandoned?”

“It is only a _bit_ of flesh, isn't it? I see no reason why you can't tend to it yourself. I've got bigger concerns, ones that can only be resolved between your legs.”

France was shoved down to the bed, his partner leaving to fetch their bottle of oil on a far cabinet. It was displayed amongst the many perfumes and lotions so not to distract the cleaning staff too much. As France sat back up, England was already coming over with the open bottle.

“Lie still, then.” The youngest slipped one finger at a time into the glass jar.

“Perhaps I've led you to believe a far more dire situation. I only meant that I've been craving your touch on my skin.”

“And you'll receive just that.”

France rethought his word choice. “I'll be blunt with you, dear: I'd like very much for you to use your mouth on me.”

“Not likely.”

France lowered his brow in distaste. “What do you mean? Here I've been waiting for you to fondle my flesh and you won't oblige my one request? Have I not been loyal to you all this time? Have I not been abandoned by you for a fortnight now?”

“I've also been abandoned. Don't you think I’ve missed your touch or your kiss?”

“Oh, you have not been abandoned! It was you who ran from home to build an army!”

“That wasn't my idea! I was forced to improve my naval power by Germany! If anyone is to be at fault, it should be him!”

France threw his arms in the air from his seat. “Do you realise how difficult it is to live with you? I could've left in your absence if I so chose, but I stayed here to see you again. All I asked in return was for you to suck on me!”

“Suck on yourself! Leave then, I don't care!” England went to put the bottle back. “Isn't this just where we left it? You were upset because I was leaving for London? Well, now you're upset again and I'm not even going anywhere! What do you want me to do, then?”

“I've told you what I want!”

“You want to leave? Fine, by all means!” He rubbed his hands together to clean himself of the oil. “Go back to Paris where your lovely wine is! Your precious restaurants! Your _to-die-for_ streets, full of beauty, full of people!”

“England, all I wanted was your mouth on my penis! But you need to throw in everything, don't you? You're sore about how I try to impress you. Nothing I do will ever be enough for you. I only insult you. Well, who could live up to your damned expectations if not me? The one who loves you. The one who cooks your food. Who makes love to you. Who is still here after you ran off to build more boats, after you yelled at him, after you disrespected him, humiliated him-”

“Then tell me why,” shouted England. “Why the bloody hell are you still here?”

“England,” he rose from the bed to say it in the country’s face, “Because I still love you!”

The country turned away from him.

“I still do. You can hurt me, you can leave me, ignore me… I'm still here!” France chased his partner round the bed. “I waited for you! Do you think I wanted to?”

“Did you? I think not!”

“Of course not! What makes you think you're worth waiting for? You're terrible! You have a repellant personality!”

“I'm confused- I think you've confused yourself with all your talk! And get away from me!”

France cornered the country against the wardrobe. “I'm leading up to something you unrefined idiot! Is everything _results_ with you? Is nothing about the suspense? No? You'd rather hear how the play ends than see it for yourself?”

“Stop it!” He shoved France away, “Stop it, I say!”

“That's how much I love you! You're impossible yet I'm still here.”

“Well, congratulations to you, hoity toity pillock!”

“Very well.” France wiped his partner’s spit from his face as he took a step back. “I'll just have to silence you another way.” He charged at the country and slammed their bodies together, sucking England’s face with a near forgotten passion.

The youngest grunted, pushing on France with a restrained force, as if holding himself back from truly fighting the other off.

France weaseled his fingers between the wardrobe and his partner’s skin to grope England’s ass. He hauled the younger country off the ground, his bare legs wrapped round France’s hips. As he pushed England against a door, his long hair caught under the country’s grip, France ground their loins together with the same passion. A deep need to hold his lover against him and never let go. England was a complete idiot when it came to relationships. Actually, England was a complete idiot all together. But France couldn't resist him. He just couldn't. It was a curse. That's what it was. England’s soft lips between the eldest country’s teeth. His open buttocks inviting France in, bewitching the eldest. England’s warm smile, his sensitive skin, erotic moaning…

England pushed his hips from the wardrobe to better grind against France.

At that moment the eldest couldn't control himself. He carried England to the bed and fell on top of him, the two of them resituating atop the covers to better align their bodies. After peppering each other with passionate, vicious kisses, England dragged his partner down to lay beside him before mounting the eldest, holding France’s wrists to the bed. He continued kissing the eldest, their tongues running across each other while their lips pulled together and apart. France felt his eyes rolling back under his eyelids.

The topping country humped along his partner’s member, squishing them together as best he could. They were both sweating, compliments of their fight. Needless to say, it quite riled them up. England propped himself on his elbows, releasing his partner’ wrists, instead cradling France’s head with his arms. He tugged France’s hair as his fists dug into the covers.

“Mmm,” the eldest massaged England’s ass. In turn, he aided in keeping their loins together, hungry for a stronger touch.

England fought to remove himself from his partner while France tried to lock them together. After some struggling, England broke free from the eldest’s body and moved lower to France’s dick. He wasted no time slurping it into his mouth, sinking down a bit before pulling his lips back up to the tip, bobbing his head lower with each round. After a bit more of this prep, England was able to relax enough to take on France’s full length, his chin nearly riding the eldest’s balls.

France sighed, “Auh, England…”

The younger country swallowed at the sound of France’s pleasure. In doing so, he caught the head of his partner’s member in this throat, squeezing it for a moment.

“Mm,” the eldest pulled his lips apart with a soft smacking noise, as if coming away from a kiss. “England…”

He ate up France like a fire, a beastly force without sense. His tongue was hot... His treatment merciless… England started a red blush, craving more of this dizzying nourishment, wanting and needing more of France’s cries for him, a lust for pulsing flesh. He felt disgusting for a moment, but only a moment. England then took a hand to his own member, tending to the ache brought on by this deprival sex.

In the meantime, France had now reached the next stage to his fantasy: England was touching himself. All France had to do now was push his partner close enough to the edge that England became desperate for the eldest country’s dick.

France tried another moan. “Ohh…”

His partner panted through his nose, steaming hot air onto France’s skin.

“Oh, England.”

“Hmm,” the youngest whimpered, his voice shaking with desire.

France put a hand to England’s head. Stroking the country’s hair like a pet, he said, “Faster…”

England did as he was told.

“Auh,” he cried. “My love, faster..!”

It got to the point where the youngest couldn't help but suck harder, seeing as he couldn't speed up the process much more than he already had.

It didn't matter to France. “Ah!” He thought this a prime moment to play his next card: “Don't touch yourself.”

England’s mouth gaped as his toy was taken away, France turning from the country and forcing his dick to slide out. The youngest grunted, “I'm using my _pretty lips_! You're the impossible one!”

“And you're doing a marvellous job, my sweet. If you insist on giving yourself attention, come here with your sore spot. That's it, kneel over my mouth.”

England’s chest stirred as he turned himself round atop France’s torso, resting his legs on either side of the eldest country’s head. “I want inside you, more than anything.”

Well, that wasn't part of the fantasy. Neither was sucking off England while being sucked off by said country, but one can never get too experimental with these things.

France said, “Yes, yes, all in due time. We mustn't abuse our bodies with denial of chances for pleasure. Quite the contrary, we need not fear unexplored uses for our hands, tongues, everyday objects… All must be-”

“Objects?” England shrieked and brought his hips forward to sit on France’s chest. “Like what?”

“My dear boy! Do you refuse the pleasure of that which is non-flesh?”

“I most certainly am no animal, if that's what this all comes down to!”

“It's not a matter of etiquette.” France sighed, “Oh dear, I knew this was an issue of yours. You're trapped within that social acceptance.”

The youngest turned to look at France. “I will not stunt myself to suit your tastes. What you speak of is an act below me and my principles.”

“What good are those if you're just going to ignore them whenever nobody's around to see you? You're a liar is what you are.”

“Don't tell me what I am! I don't suppose your way of living is any more honest than mine. We're both public officials. There must be something you're doing behind the law’s back.”

France said, “Homosexuality isn't illegal where I come from. You on the other hand arrive in London pretending to be on the prowl for a wife, when there's a bothered Frenchman waiting for you at home. Which of us is living dishonestly?”

The youngest crawled off his partner, keeping their eyes locked. “Are you scolding me? Are you ashamed by the fact that I need to keep you a secret? Do you even want to be here, really?”

“Mon amour,” he sat up and put a hand to England’s face. The youngest pulled away from him. “In return, do you truly love me?”

“What are you asking me?” His head turned towards a shoulder, pointing his nose down to hide his face.

France said over, “Am I an outlet for sex and conversation? Or is there another reason you've invited me to live on your estate?”

The youngest wiped his face. “It isn't my fault, it's Germany’s! He's the one who took me away to build an army! Without Germany, I wouldn't need to increase my level of protection!”

France waited to see his partner’s eyes again but they never came back up. “Do you honestly believe that country poses any threat to you?”

It was then England returned eye contact. “You sing in front of Egypt, and live off me, and ridicule me, you don't listen to what I say..! I should be able to do what I like! This is my home! I've already told you, you can leave if you're so unhappy! If you're so unwilling to obey the ground rules!”

“What makes you think I want to leave?”

“What in God’s name do you want, then? Go on, tell me!”

France leaned over and took the country by his lips.

“Stop,” tears ran from the youngest’s eyes. “Stop it..!”

He threw his arms round England and wouldn't let go, proceeding to kiss his lover’s face.

“Stop..!” He melted in France’s arms, tipping his chin up as the eldest pampered him. “I can't stand it…”

France laid the country down, pressing his nose into England’s jaw for a kiss. As the trapped country sobbed, France smothered his mouth in England’s collar, nipping at his partner’s skin.

“France,” he begged. “Get off me..!”

The eldest continued to eat up his lover, driven by a need to prove to England that he truly missed his little roastbeef. Though, all the more effort he put into it, the more aggravated England became. It was no longer a cry for help, an expression of confusion as to why France would still crave England’s company... it was a cry for control, a redemption of power that he’d lost the moment France refused to quit kissing him, that burst from within the youngest. He no longer wanted France’s pity, he wanted to be obeyed.

“Get off me!” He struggled under France’s weight, kicking and tossing himself until he was set free.

France stayed right beside him. “My love, if you still don’t understand-”

“You keep your inquiries to yourself!” He shoved France out of his face. “I don’t want you in here anymore!”

“England-”

“Get out!” He chased France off the bed and towards the door. “Get out of my house! Get off my property!”

“England-”

“Go away!” He turned to hide against the wardrobe, curling in on himself. “Just go away!”

The country could’ve opened the door and thrown France out himself, but that would’ve alarmed the rest of the house. The children would worry, the staff would grow suspicious… France was thankful of his partner’s quick thinking, and in such a raging state no less. But France wasn’t going to leave. He’d already made up his mind that he was going to prove to England why he’d stayed after all this time. He stomped over to his partner and turned England round to face him.

He shoved France back. “Go on!”

The eldest hesitated to act again, but walked into England’s space as before.

“Go on,” he shoved France once more. “Go!”

He grabbed England’s arms to keep in front of the country, glaring at his partner in frustration and apology. The youngest rammed his body into France, determined to get him out one way or another. France stood his ground and fought back against his partner, fighting to stay by the wardrobe.

“Let go of me!” He shouted, “You git!”

France held tight as his partner thrashed to be set free.

“You bloody pig! You daft, putrid sod! Insuffera-”

France hit him over the head, silencing him for a moment.

With an arm free, he yanked himself out of France’s hold and smacked him back.

The eldest went still, staring ahead, expecting England to hit him again. After a short moment of being denied further scolding, France wondered if England even cared enough about him. If the reason England was holding back was because he was already done with France, and any effort more to put his point across was a waste of time. France didn’t want it to end here. He wanted England to keep raging, to keep their love alive, to want France again.

The eldest said, “Do it again.”

England took a breath and smacked him.

“Do it again.”

England did so.

“Again!”

The youngest did, and then grabbed France’s face to pull their lips together. He inhaled France’s skin, exhaling into the country’s mouth as he ran their tongues together. England walked into his partner, forcing the other to march blindly toward the bed. He lifted France off the ground and threw the eldest onto his back, leaving for the cabinet. He brought the bottle back into the conversation, wetting his fingers as he closed in on France.

The eldest only panted, afraid to say anything lest he ruin everything all over again.

England tore France’s legs apart and stuck his fingers in.

France used his feet to pull England closer, wrapping his legs round the country once they were close enough. As the youngest worked him, France stared at his partner’s lips. How he wanted them. He wanted England closer. He wanted England not to be upset with him anymore. To live how they once had, free of worry or interruption or preoccupation…

England sunk his dick in, riding the oil deeper into the older country.

Should he grunt or something? Would keeping too much control of himself offend England? France went ahead and gave a slight moan. Nothing too flattering, England had barely begun.

The youngest fastened the bottle again and tossed it aside. He pounded into France, moving quickly, grunting in France’s face. The other closed his fingers round England’s wrists that stood firm on either side of France.

He remained staring at England’s lips. Hoping the country would get a clue. But then again, England wasn’t looking at him: He was watching his dick move in and out of France, admiring his work. The eldest rang his hands round England’s wrists for attention. But the youngest didn’t notice. France ran his grip up his partner’s arms, squeezing the country’s shoulders instead. But England didn’t pay him any more attention. So, France yanked the country down to his level and forced their lips together, turning England’s chin up manually.

England sighed as their mouths pulled apart, pushing back into France for another kiss.

This was more like it. This was the lovestruck England he’d been looking for. France put a hand on either side of his partner’s face, keeping their mouths together as long as he could. England now on his elbows, put his hands on either side of France’s face, mimicking his partner’s idea. As the youngest shamelessly hung his mouth open against France, lips frozen on his partner’s skin as he grew close to an orgasm, France took hold of the youngest’s tongue. He suckled England’s tongue like he did England’s dick. The thought was delicious; England being so close he could no longer think to use the muscles in his face. Really, the things England did just before an orgasm.

“Ah,” England sighed, drooling straight into France’s mouth.

The eldest kissed around England’s languid mouth, feeling himself grow terribly sensitive. His partner closed his hands to fists, clenching France’s hair, and dragged his hold across the bed toward the pillows. France grunted and closed his teeth on his partner’s lip, tugging on it as the eldest country’s chin turned up.

England snarled and grabbed a bigger fistful of hair, pulling bundles of gold from the back of France’s head to the front, smothering the eldest country in his own locks.

France, in return, took his partner’s ears and yanked them closer, taking a new bite at England’s lip. The youngest gasped and released France, instead wrapping his hands round the eldest country’s neck. Well, France wrapped his hands round England’s neck and squeezed back. See how he liked that.

England shouted a quick moan and thrashed France’s head against the covers.

In return, France closed his hands with more force, clenching his partner’s throat shut. The youngest choked for a moment, slamming his hips into France at a slower pace but with more precision. England rolled his eyes back as they shut tight, his chest and stomach flexing in unison as he tried to force air out. The lower of the two wanted to release his partner, but England was still attempting to strangle him. Romance is a give and take effort, England needed to learn this. He swallowed against France’s thumbs. He thrashed France against the bed once more, pushing his tongue just beyond his lips and drooling down his chin. Then, his back arched under France’s legs, and as his shoulders came up to cradled France’s hands, England’s head tossed against his will. It wasn’t long after this moment that England drew his hands back and clung to France’s wrists. Of course, France released him then.

England heaved as his eyes flew open once again, his body pulsing with the remaining waves of pleasure. The eldest kept his arms stiff so his partner could use them for support, England beginning to slump down onto France’s body.

The eldest watched as his languid partner trembled overhead. He lowered his arms until England was flat against his chest. The two of them panted together, France into his partner’s hair and England into his partner’s bosom.

France dared to speak. “England…”

After a huff, he replied, “Auh…”

He said nothing more. He stared at the ceiling, refusing to spoil this afterglow.  If he were to say something that would upset England, France would never forgive himself. Well, not for a long time. It was too easy to upset England. He would simply use body language, something more subtle and intimate. France took an arm out from between their sweaty bodies and stuck his fingers in England’s hair. He rubbed down his partner to England’s nape, messaging the country in slow motions. He slipped his hand along England’s spine until his fingers were dancing atop the youngest’s buttocks.

England moaned, his lips dragging across one of France’s pecs as he closed his mouth. He then, hummed the next moan.

France dipped his fingers down to his partner’s pucker, rubbing back and forth across it. France hadn't finished yet. He needed England to do something about it or get off him.

The youngest sat up and smacked France across the face. As the other brought his hands to his face in shock, England smacked him again.

“Ow!” France tried a verbal rebuttal.

But the country smacked him a third time. England then pulled out and rubbed their dicks together, using one hand to grip them both.

This was better. France humped into his partner’s hand, holding onto England’s shoulders.

“Get off.” England swung his shoulders out from France’s hold. “Keep your hands above your head.”

The eldest did so, laying his body flat on the bed, afraid to move at all. England was still quite upset. France would need to tread lightly if this was to end well. Maybe he could make erotic noises.

England sat on his partner’s legs, moving his fists along their cocks, France’s soft and England’s at attention.

“Ohh,” France gave a deep moan as he closed his eyes.

The youngest messaged the meat in his hands as he grunted, rocking his hips with the pleasurable sensation.

“England.”

“Shut up.”

Well, what was France supposed to do then? Nothing? Was he even allowed to open his eyes again? He did so anyway, looking up at his partner as England breathed heavily.

“Hm,” France sighed.

“God, you're noisy.”

France furred his brow. He supposed he really was to do nothing. How utterly dissatisfying. How boring. What made England so cross in the first place? Because France still loved him? Because they couldn't understand where their love came from? Who bloody cares! They were together and that was all that mattered! Why should anything upset England so much anyway? Besides the issue with Germany, it was a time to make merry. They had lots of money, lots of time, everything they could ever wish for.

“England, I-”

“Shut up.”

“I love you.”

“Shut up, then!”

France did, but only for a moment. “Darling, you must understand.”

He inhaled as he removed his hands, glaring down at France. “Understand what? Somehow I’m supposed to believe you really love me?”

“I do, England! I do so much.”

The youngest snorted.

“With all my heart.”

“Hmm, well that leaves little room for your wine, music, gardening-”

France threw his hands on England’s knees. “I know you don't return the feeling, so why should I be obligated to prove my love? Shouldn't it be you who proves his heart isn't made of stone?”

“You mean the one letting you live on his estate free of charge?”

“I'm charged with murder every day! All you do is complain about how I ruin your life! How I'm running around doing nothing!”

England shouted insults as his partner continued.

“You've forgotten I'm trimming your hedges, cooking your meals, offering my body, obeying the entente-”

He erupted in a fury as he raised himself from France. “What are you doing here?”

“England,” he shouted back, “Why do you keep me here?”

Tears bubbled at the youngest’s eyes, his face turning red. “I don't bloody know!”

“England!” He opened his arms.

“Why do I keep you?”

France began to cry as well, smiling up at his partner.

“You pig!” He fell forward into France’s embrace, throwing his arms round the eldest as best he could.

France kissed the country’s hair. “Oh, rosbif.”

 

England gazed onto his partner. His freeloader. With an arm under his head he laid across from France, waiting for the older country to wake up. Why was France still here? What was keeping him round so long? Was it love? It couldn’t have been. France was only using England as a sort of pet: Someone to dress, feed, entertain… They had nothing in common. What would they possibly build their love from? They were always disagreeing, they had completely different goals and views of living, they had opposing personalities, they despised each other’s cultures... Why was France still here? Or rather, why was England still keeping him? Earlier he’d mentioned trust, but there was much more to a relationship than that. Well, what did he know? England had never been in a relationship. Maybe he was doing something right. He must’ve been if France had stuck with him for this long. Additionally, France must be doing something right if England had kept his doors open for this long. Just what was this thing they were doing? Was it a number of things? Was it subconscious? Could they control it? Whatever it was, England was going to find it and dissect it. Explore the nature of it, the intent...

He looked down at the sheets, the window behind him casting a soft glow on his hand. His shadow laid just beside him, his messy hair poking out from the dark mass on his pillow. The early spring brought with it cold mornings. England’s white shoulder laid exposed with the covers draping down his arm. Were these new bedsheets? Where did they come from? Had they been there last night? Why didn’t he notice? They were a completely different colour now.

France’s eyes peeked open for a second before closing again.

He stared at the elder country, waiting for him to open his eyes again. When he didn’t, England asked, “Hello?”

“Hmm.”

“How long have you been lying there awake?”

“Do you have something to hide?”

“We might be downstairs by now, eating.”

France hid his head under the pillow as he whined, “Lamb…”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry... the sex scenes are kind of awkward.....  
> I might’ve exaggerated France’s poetic side just a bit.
> 
> SHHH!! It’s character development! (ง •̀ω•́)ง✧


	3. Chapter 3

1905 - March

 

France held a conference with Spain about the Moroccan Crisis. A title he and England had come up with. He sat across from Spain at the country’s more formal dining table, located in the middle of his grand hall. A chandelier hung over them, a large portrait above the fireplace. The afternoon lit up a long section of the wood floor, leading across the way to the double doors and just left of the table. Dark leaves hung in clusters against the tall windows, rain beating down on them. It was a cold Spring here by the Mediterranean.

Though it was really none of England’s business, France told his partner of the interaction between Germany and Morocco. How the country had made an appearance while England was away. How the country was slowly becoming a bigger problem. France supposed his partner ought to know about this. After all, this did occur on England’s estate… With the country that rivalled England’s army… He supposed England had every right to know about this actually. On another note, England took it quite well. Even though France waited until the next day (and after they had sex) to tell him. France was encouraged to bring this up with Spain, the other country taking care of Morocco.

With the young nation in the other room. Spain was updated on the corruption with Germany’s foreign policy, and joined France in wondering what the country was up to. Germany had claimed he and Morocco would have advances in commerce beyond all other traders. But Morocco was in the custody of France and Spain, so all imports and exports were monitored. Therefore, if Morocco were to comply with Germany’s request, the young nation would need to be independant. Meaning Germany wanted France and Spain out of the picture. Did he think he owned Morocco? What nerve. Not only was Germany on private property without England’s consent, but Germany also spoke on equal terms with the young nation. As if inviting Morocco to a contract for which the young nation was ill equipped. Germany was taking advantage of the young nation, but Morocco didn’t know any better.

“How long has Germany been aware of Morocco staying with you at England’s estate?”

France said, “I don't know. England’s been in contact with Germany for a while now. He could've slipped something.”

“And surrender Morocco to Germany? Why place the Entente Cordiale? Wasn't that to keep the both of you from taking the other’s child? No, that doesn't sound like England: He would claim Morocco all to himself if he could. There’s no reason he would intentionally get Germany involved.”

“We also have reason to believe England’s postman is a German spy.”

Spain smiled, “That sounds backward. Why would Germany want to spy on anyone? He’s a powerful country all on his own. And it’s usually England who spies on Germany, is it not?”

“England and the postman get along famously. I wouldn't doubt England has given information away.”

“That’s pretty reckless of him.” Spain denied the idea. “Even if the postman was a spy, I think you can put enough faith in England not to give away too many secrets.”

“Let me start over actually.” France cleared his head. “England was getting letters from Germany not long after our entente was set. It was assumed Germany wanted us to disband it. Our initial thought as to why was because England and I were seeing each other, and Germany disapproved of it. But now, I believe the reason is because he wanted his own custody of Morocco.”

“That goes against his foreign policy.”

“Yes. However, I now believe Germany simply wants an independent Morocco.”

Spain propped his head on a hand to think, leaning on the table. “It’s North Africa he wants, isn’t it? Everybody wants a chunk of that continent...”

“Yes, England claimed most of it.”

“Morocco is virtually the only nation left to claim. It’s no wonder Germany’s after us. But then why would he contact England? Why not write letters to us directly?”

France crossed his arms. “I think he wants two things: He wants the entente disdained and for Morocco to be free of influence. At first, Germany was only writing England to discuss the entente. He thought we were too close, and probably threatened to expose us. But then Germany came round the estate to talk to morocco. Well, he might’ve come to speak to England, but he was off building and army. So instead, Germany spoke to Morocco.”

“It just sounds like Germany’s working overdrive. So you’ve heard of Germany’s growing military?”

“Yes, England left for a while to tend to his naval army.”

“Well,” said Spain, “Military means war. Maybe he’s trying to fight for Morocco’s freedom. But first he had to frighten you both: Threaten that you and England would be exposed if the entente continued. You would feel obligated to let Germany do what he wants, right?”

“Not I, But England was worried for a time...”

“Well, Germany didn’t write to you. He wrote to England.”

France looked at Spain in awe. “You know, you’re right. Germany’s trying to fight for Morocco: He’s planning to separate you and I from the young nation, starting with me of course. He knew I couldn’t be swayed from the Entente Cordiale with such a silly threat, so he took it up with England. With his belly up, England would have to end the entente and leave me crawling back here, to your house. That’s one less country to take care of.”

“Then it would be just us two and Morocco. It would be easier to keep tabs on the young nation if we’re not driving Morocco back and forth from England’s house and my own.”

“With England out of the picture, I’d come live with you. Germany knows this. Without England, I only have you to fall back on. England’s an emotional support to me as my partner.”

“Germany’s playing dirty. He’s messing with your heads to get what he wants. If he’s including England in this madness at all, he knows England supports you. He knows that without England, you’re weak.” Spain glance around the table for a minute. “I don’t think Germany cares about your relationship. What he wants is the strongest country in the world to back down. He wants England to stop offering you support, you see?”

France shook his head. “It won’t work. England isn’t so easily scared. After being exposed, England may be devastated for a month or so, but he still holds the largest army.”

“That’s very true.”

“England won’t bow down to Germany.” He smiled, “This is silly. It’s child’s play, is what it is. Who does Germany think he’s dealing with? If I know England, I know the country would never surrender, for one thing. Nevermind to an unproven claim about our homosexual activities. Really, Germany has no proof there’s even a relationship between England and I.”

Spain smiled back. “No proof at all? That’s debatable.”

“I realise England and I have history, but that doesn’t imply we’re in each other’s trousers…”

Spain laughed. “I’m not worried. This is fun, isn’t it?”

“Yes, quite soon we shall watch Germany running on back home with his tail between his legs!”

“He doesn’t need Morocco. If he’s lonely, he should buy another dog.”

France leaned over the table. “Indeed! It’s a time to let go, to indulge in pleasure, to make merry!”

The other country leaned in as well, in close proximity with France’s face. “It’s the golden era! There isn’t any room for worry!”

“Of course not!”

Spain laughed, filling the hall with his proud and joyous voice.

“What time is it anyway? Why don’t we carry this conversation to a place more intimate?”

“Like old times,” purred Spain.

 ~*~

England was at his desk again. He knew the Moroccan Crisis was the issue at hand, but he was preoccupied with Germany’s implications of war. Why would the country’s army be growing? What was he after? Certainly not Morocco. It was unnecessary to put so much effort into taking something from France. It was unnecessary to put any effort at all into taking something from France.

Oh, but here was a thought England never considered: Germany knew that if he threatened France, England would get involved because of the entente. And England was a powerful country. Of course. That was why Germany sent him the letter all along. Not to break the relationship or expose their homosexuality, rather to remove the protection England offered France. That was the only way Germany would take control of Morocco. Well, England needed to report this to France immediately. How inconvenient that he was at Spain’s house. England should’ve went with him. Maybe they’d reached the same conclusion

England could ring Spain. But the operators would hear every word. There would also be record of England contacting Spain. Though, to the average person, it would merely look like one politician speaking to another. Still, if ringing Germany made him feel uneasy, why would ringing Spain be any different? Was it because France would be on the other line? That would make matters worse. Then there would be record of England contacting France who was at Spain’s house. England didn’t want to cause trouble for anyone. Especially if he himself would be involved in the aftermath. What if France had left already, and was on his way back home? What was England so worried about? He could discuss matters later. This wasn’t so important that he needed to contact France immediately.

Not on his home phone anyway.

England drove into town and hurried over to an open booth. A coin-operated phone awaited him beside a small bench, built into the wall of his private compartment. He closed the wooden door behind him and put the phone to his ear. After calling Spain, he waited to hear the dial tone. It took quite a long time. After some minutes, he sat on the bench.

Spain answered with a melodic voice. “Hello, this is Mr Antonio Fernández Carriedo.”

The operator instructed England to drop his coins in, now that the party had answered.

Spain asked, “Who is calling?”

England said, “Do you have company over?”

“Why yes,” he beamed through the phone. “I’m entertaining right now. So, you’re English, eh?”

“Send them home and get back to work, you lazy man!”

“Oh dear!” Spain laughed in surprise. “Well, we can’t all be tyrants! There wouldn’t be a world left, would there?”

“This is important. This is the world’s future. Send your company home and get back to work.”

“And what was your name again?”

England paused. “Your company’s party crasher.”

“Is that so? Have you something against my company?”

“Isn’t your party over yet?”

Spain held the phone away, “Ai!” He then brought it back to his mouth, “I hope not. I hope it lasts all night. As any good time should.”

They were speaking in code to avoid suspicion from the operator, but Spain’s last comment seemed a bit… straightforward. England was pretending to be a random Englishman concerned with the Spanish economy -- having called a prime politician. Because France was over at Spain's house, England acted as though Spain was hosting a party. That way, the operator wouldn't suspect Spain to be alone with another man. Spain himself was quite the quit witted country when it came to acting.

England said, “Hand one of them the phone. I’ll tell them off for you.”

“My company’s hands are quite full at the moment.”

England’s gut tightened. What did that mean? What was going on? Was it code for something or was Spain being serious? England looked at the wooden wall, the red phone, the three coin slots, the spiralling phone cord… What should he say? Should he give up? Was this all for nothing? His face was getting hot. He felt as if he’d been lied to. As if he’d been made a fool of. What was happening on the other end of this call?

Spain held the phone away from him to shout again. “Ai, Papi!”

England slammed the phone down on the machine.

He started at the darkness.

What happened?

France was having sex with Spain.

England bent forward and hid his face in his hands.

France was having sex with Spain!

He was trembling. Why was he trembling? He moved each hand to the opposing arm to hold himself, still hunching over his legs. He took a forceful breath, neighbouring conversations seeping through the walls around him. He coughed as his face grew hotter. After a shaky inhale through his teeth, heavy tears stung his eyes as they forced their way out.

~*~

Silence returned France’s knocks upon his partner’s front door. It was rather a large house, so he waited patiently for someone to answer him. Where was the butler? Off doing France’s chores, no doubt. The ivy was turning a beautiful green against England’s house, twisting and knotting its way up to the roof. France tipped his umbrella just enough to see the garden, little buds sprouting on the trees that lined the gravel drive. It’d been quite some time, but still, no one was in any hurry to let him inside. France rang the doorbell instead. Really, what was everyone up to? He couldn’t remember a time he’d waited so long to be let in. The household knew he was coming back. He simply went to see Spain (like England wanted), and dropped Morocco off.

Raindrops pattered at his umbrella. Was no one home? Even if England were to leave, his staff would still be here. France couldn’t remember if England had ever told them not to answer the door if he were to be out. He couldn’t remember if Germany had received the same treatment that day France caught him speaking with Morocco. Though, by the time France had spotted the country, Germany was away from the door. Maybe Germany never knocked. Maybe he only came to see Morocco, and convenient enough, the child was in the front drive... Speaking of which, France and England needed to discuss the Moroccan Crisis. He and Spain had come up with a genius explanation as to why Germany was pestering England so.

After another minute, France walked over to a window to see if he could signal someone. He peered into England’s office, the back of a desk chair there to greet him. He couldn’t see anyone. He journeyed along the house the other way to another window. He looked inside but no one was in the sitting room. There were no signs of life anywhere. No empty cups left on the table, no hanging jackets from chairs. Perhaps someone was upstairs. France could toss a pebble at the window. He took a few steps back and picked a rock from the drive. Leaning his umbrella back to see the upstairs, he wondered if he should really throw something. If the risk of breaking a window was worth it. What was England doing? Sitting in his chair?

France walked round the house to the back, continuing along the gravel as it surrounded the building, lined on either side by a long patch of grass. A large bush stood at the rear corner of the house. As he walked round it, he entered the back gardens, taking a few steps to the parlour window. There was the yellow chair England always sat in. Where was everyone, really? France turned to the estate, long hills rolling down to the distant pond, neatly sectioned thickets and trees crossing the fields, bright hunting lodges and resorts nestled in the forestry, specks of wildflowers covered the countryside all blue and yellow. There was no sign of animal life. Not even a single duck to float about in the water.

Had England gone on holiday without consulting him?

Actually, why would he need to? This was England’s estate.

France tried the back door, pulling on it twice when it wouldn’t budge the first try. Both doors were locked tight. Was there an open window? Was France so desperate as to use such a method of entry? Well, where was everybody? He walked round to the front again and tried the doorbell one last time.

Silence. If England owned any dogs, depending on whether anyone was home, they’d be barking. That would've been helpful. England’s lack of dogs was a mystery to France, as the country loved to go hunting. Oh well. More work for England, he supposed.

And these were nice windows. Why would France risk breaking one of them? SImply to gain England’s attention. No, he would find another way. But what if no one was inside? Not even the staff. Where would everyone be? This was ridiculous. The staff stayed home. England knew this. So, if he was on holiday, he would know to leave them home. They must still be inside. Unless England fired them all, or sold them off to a high bidder. But what would England need the money for? Why would he dismiss his staff in the first place? Maybe everyone was hiding. Maybe they thought France was Germany. That made sense. Very well, he was going to presume everyone inside was hiding from Germany.

So, how to correct them?

Should he start his motorcar? Surely, he and Germany drove different models. He wondered if England would know the difference. But wouldn’t they have heard him drive in? England would’ve known then that it wasn’t Germany’s car. They must not be able to hear motors from inside. France supposed he never could remember if he’d ever heard a car here before. Not even when he was outside. The grounds were quite large.

Maybe he should throw a rock.

France took the pebble in his hand and tipped the umbrella back. He threw the rock up to the second floor window, hitting it with a soft clang. Then, he waited.

Well, because the house was so grand, if no one were to be in that particular room, no one would be able to hear that. France would need to throw a rock at every window. How tedious. Was it really worth it? Could he ring England and tell him to open the door? But France would have to go all the way back into town. What a bother.

France was stuck.

Perhaps he could try the doorbell one last time. Though, why would it work this time? Maybe it didn’t work. Well of course it rang, but maybe it wasn’t connected to every room. Why have a doorbell that doesn’t work properly? He thought back to how things used to be around here: France would knock on the door, and the butler would let him in. Where was that butler? Was he fired? He supposed England’s temper could get the best of him at times. After the butler came the valet. Where was the valet, then? Usually he could be found in England’s office, but no one was in there at this hour.

France went over to the office window again to have a second look.

Nope. Not a soul.

Well, it was cold. It was very cold, and England wasn’t letting France inside. Oh, dreary spring. But it is beautiful. Very soon, the flowers would bud, and it would be that silly word England liked to use to describe his estate. What was it? Arcadia? _The perfect countryside_. Oh, no, no, that was not England’s estate. It is beautiful here, but this land is far from perfect, dear friend.

Come now. Where was England?

France rang the doorbell anyway. No one came to answer it. Yet again.

That’s it. Make France wait in the rain, will you? He turned to board his motorcar, putting his leather gloves back on. He closed his umbrella and sat in the driver’s seat, under what the manufactures called a roof. It was a narrow strip of leather stretching from the back seat to the windshield, leaving the sides of the car wide open. Good thing it wasn't stormy, or the rain would come in sideways. France sat in his rounded chair, hugging him round the middle as he relaxed. Or pondered, rather.

Where was England? Should he come back tomorrow? If France was going to be left out in his car all night, of course he should. Why shouldn't he? Especially if England was going to be stubborn about letting him in.

 

He drove into town to exchange some money for the same amount in the English currency. Then, hurried into a phone booth. France felt as though he was bending over backwards for England. Was this really necessary? How could he be so sure England would answer a phone? At least it was easier than getting the door. Either way though, it was the butler who answered, not England.

Here goes nothing. Quite literally. France dialed his partner’s estate.

The ringtone went on for a while.

He should give up. He should think of some other way to get England’s attention. But what would he do? What or whom would England respond to if not France?

After quite some time with no answer, France hung up.

~*~

The early morning mist blanketed the hills. The sky was grey. A little bicycle pushed its way up the road, a sack on the rider’s hip. France sat in his car just beside the hydrangea bush outside his partner’s gate. This was the day the post came in. England's butler always opened the door for the postman. Well, whenever England wasn't outside waiting for him. France watched the bike as it wheeled closer and turned into England’s estate, crossing the pebble drive. France got out of his car to follow the man. The bike stopped at the front door, and as the man went to ring the bell, France came up beside him. He turned to the country with curiosity in his eye. They shared a moment of silence as France stared ahead.

Suddenly, France glanced back at the postman. This man’s face was awfully familiar. What was his name again?

“Good morning.” The postman asked, “What are you doing here so early?”

His voice… it sounded…

France replied, “I live here.”

“What were you doing hiding in your car?”

“I wasn't hiding.”

“Were you waiting for someone?”

Why was this man acting so…

France said, “You are speaking to an aristocrat.”

“Oh, is that so?”

Who… was this person? Why was everything they did so familiar? His speech, attitude, behaviour...

England’s butler opened the door.

France and the postman said in unison, “Hello.” Then, they looked at one another. The postman in slight apology, as to allow the country to continue; and France in slight annoyance, as to ask why the man was speaking so freely.

The butler asked, “Yes? Sir Bonnefoy?”

The butler was being formal now? He asked, “Where is Arthur?”

“Master Kirkland does not require your presence.”

“I wish to speak with him.”

“Master Kirkland has requested that you not return to the estate.”

“What's happened? Where is he? I need to speak with him immediately.”

“Sir Bonnefoy, if you would be so humble, please leave the premises.”

The postman turned a knowing look to the country.

France didn't know what to do. He stared at the butler. Should he shout into the house? No, that would seem too desperate. Perhaps he should just leave. But when would there be another opportunity like this? England’s door was open, the staff was talking with him. France needed to do something.

He slipped past the butler. He hurried down the hall to the stair, speculating where England might be. He went up to their shared room, finding it empty. All right. He went down the hall and back downstairs to the parlour, looking for England in his yellow chair. Though, the country wasn't there either. Where else could he be?

The butler chased after him. “Sir Bonnefoy.”

France disregarded the staff, heading for the solarium. England wasn't there. He took a sharp turn to leave the room, avoiding the butler just behind him. He checked England’s office, but the country wasn't there either. Perhaps England really did take a holiday. But why at such an inconvenient time? The Moroccan Crisis had just begun. Maybe England thought France's visit over at Spain's would take longer.

All right. Truth be known, France knew this was all because England had to call Spain. No doubt England had heard some questionable sounds and jumped to conclusions. Of course, England being who he is, could only think of one explanation. But it wasn't as black and white as the younger country thought: France was merely using his expertise to remove knots from Spain’s back. As soon as France was made aware that it was England on the phone, France knew his partner would assume the worst of him. Especially with how verbal Spain got with these massages. But this wasn't Spain’s fault, neither was it France’s. If anyone was to blame at all, it would be England: He was the one to jump to extremes, he was the one to lock France out. Of course, it might be easier to simply tell England what'd really happened. But this wasn't about being welcome on England’s estate, was it? It was about trust, and a lack thereof.

England just knew he was being cheated on. France was a terrible country of little respect or self control.

Was that really what England thought of him? Even if he and Spain were to have sex, it wouldn't be for the same reason he and England had sex. It wouldn't be as emotionally driven, rather. Even so, with England’s prudish culture, France would be punished for his actions. But this wasn't a matter of sexual relations. It was simply a misunderstanding. The fact that England thought so low of him (by English standards) hurt France, and quite deeply.

Yes, they'd gone in circles with one another about loving or hating their relationship; why France was still on the estate, why England had welcomed him for so long. But if England would let his walls come down and simply listen, he'd find France truly loved him. For whatever reason, it was difficult to convince the younger country. Even though the evidence was practically dangling in front of England's face. Maybe France couldn't quite pinpoint the reason for his affection either, but he'd stuck it out with England for so long… it just came natural. That was all France could say. One would think the many years of devotion would be enough proof.

France suddenly changed courses from the library to the crafting room. The butler coming to a full stop just beyond the door.

England sat at the centre table, a picture in his hands.

“So?” France crossed his arms as he leaned against the doorframe. “Let's have it.”

England turned to France, a blank but stern expression about him. “I'm sorry?”

“What do you mean by locking me out?”

“I'm still trying to understand how it is you were able to get inside.”

“Have you forgotten that I live here too?”

“Oh, do you? What makes you think so?”

“Well, I have for the past century. What made you think I wouldn't return this time?”

England frowned. “I had no doubt you'd come back. Furthermore, I had no intention to welcome you.”

“And why not?”

“I think the question is, why are you still standing there as if you're entitled to?”

France shut the door behind him. “Don't you remember? I drop Morocco off at Spain’s and return shortly after? If not, I spend a night with him at most.”

“Indeed, and how did you like this last night at Spain’s?”

“Actually, it is last night I wish to talk about. You know, I spent it alone at a hotel.”

“How did you enjoy that?”

France turned his chin up, eyes glaring down at the country. “Are you punishing me?”

“Do you think you deserve to be?”

“I who was rejected a home to come back to? Oh no, it should be you who denied me a bed to sleep in who should be punished.”

England put the picture down on the table. “Why do you spend nights with Spain? Why not simply drop the young nation off and come back? What troubles you so that you think it necessary to stay? Your tires are flat, your car’s on the fritz, it's too late at night to drive?”

“Are you so worried about me? That I can't handle myself when I'm in Spain’s presence? You were awfully jealous of him not a week ago. Could those feelings be blossoming once again?”

“Where do you think that impression came from? Go on. Wasn't it you who told me you never forget things?”

“You tiny country.”

England gave a slow blink.

“But you're right, I have no reason to like you. You've no good qualities or anything, really, to offer. It's mostly a pain to be here with you. Honestly, there are no reasons for us to be seeing one another. I do enjoy Spain’s company. I must say, my time with him is drastically more enjoyable.”

As France kept talking, England tapped his fingers on the table in annoyance.

“However, it cannot be denied that there is something between you and I, England. It keeps us together like a barrel does its bullets. A machine meant for harm, it won't allow us to think otherwise: We were destined to destroy. Our future together will cause us nothing but misfortune, anguish, and suffering. Though, we forget we're elements of the same rifle. We're stronger together-”

“Get out.”

“Will you not let me finish? Are you that cross with me?”

“What are you going to do about Morocco? Wasn't that the very reason you went to talk with Spain? Aside from dropping the nation off.”

France took a step forward. “Weren't you playing detective as well? What was so groundbreaking that you had to contact me?”

“I don't think I did actually.”

“Oh, yes you did. You tried to get to me through Spain. Just what were you on about?”

“Is that what he told you?”

“I was in the room the very moment you rang-”

England’s voice rose, “And just what were you doing there?”

France took another step. “What do you think I was doing there?”

“Well, you definitely weren't anywhere near Morocco..!”

“What makes you say that?”

“I hope-”

“Just what do you think I was doing? Why wouldn't Morocco be in the room? Weren't we talking about the Moroccan Crisis?”

“Morocco is only a child! Of course the young nation shouldn't be in the room if you two are discussing-”

France took another step. “If Morocco’s absence was implied, why did you bring it up?”

England turned in his chair, resting an arm along the back of it. “It's implied, but did you follow through?”

“What proof do you have that I didn't? Are you assuming the worst of me again?”

“Don't play this game with me.”

France crossed his arms and moved closer yet. “Another game? Really, what do you think I'm trying to pry out of you this time? An apology? I've lived with you long enough to know better.”

“Get out! I don't need another one of your rubbish lectures.”

“England, just tell me what the matter is.”

“I'm not the one beating round the bush! If you and Spain were discussing the Moroccan Crisis, what was all the yelling?”

“You and I yell back and forth all the time. Why should this be any different? Could it be you’re jealous of Spain? Really, I can't even shout at other people?”

“You bastard, no! What was the moaning, the pet name? What were you doing with Spain?”

“England!” He shouted, staring at the country in frustrated disbelief. “What do you think we were doing?”

“Why?” He got up from his seat, face turning red. “Why do you do this?”

“Do what?”

“Bastard! There you go again!”

He stepped forward, throwing his arms out. “England, do what?”

The youngest shoved him. “Play these confasticated games! Does it pleasure you to anger me? Are you that disturbed?”

France took that same step into England’s bubble again, reclaiming the footing he'd lost. “Why then, do you assume the worst of me? Do you think I do these things to pass the time? Tell me, what were Spain and I doing on the other end of the phone?”

“Shut up!” He shoved France back again.

“You know, don't you? Why won't you tell me? Are you afraid it's true? That by not telling me, it never happened?”

England stepped onward and shoved him again. “Why do you want me to say it? You sick bastard!”

“Say it!” He threw his hands on England’s shoulders and locked onto them.

“Let go of me!” The youngest did the same to France, trying to shove him off. “Let me go!”

“Say it, England!”

“Let go of me!”

“Say it!”

England clenched his teeth and took the eldest by the arms instead, pushing up on them so France’s hold would slip. He shouted, “Aahh!”

Knocking came at the door, but neither of them stopped. France clenched his fingers into England’s clothes, refusing to do as the youngest wanted.

“England!”

“Get off!”

“Calm down, you beast!”

“Bastard!”

“Idiot country!”

“Pig!”

“Roast beef!”

“Shut up!”

“Calm down!”

“Get off me!”

“Say it!”

“Why?”

France panted, “I need to know what you think happened!”

“What I think happened? You whore!”

“What happened England?”

“I hate you!” He spat, “You bloody mad whore!”

The eldest shouted back, “Where is this coming from, England? What did I do?”

“You slept with Spain!” He shoved France to the best of his abilities, moving along the floor with him. “You bloody well know you did! You pig! You come in here thinking this house is yours! I never needed you!”

“England, I didn't have sex with Spain!”

“Sod off!” Tears ran down his face. “You bloody liar!”

“What you heard wasn't sex, England! My god, you dense prude!”

“You did! You slept with Spain!”

France tried to get a word in, but England ranted on.

“I don't care how you did it! Used your hands, your mouths, your noses- it's still intercourse, you git!”

France tried again but was drowned out just the same.

“And you did! You did it with Spain! I knew you two were still seeing each other! You made me feel guilty!”

“England, shut up!”

“Let go! At once! Or I'll call the police!”

“I didn't sleep with Spain! It's over between us! It has been for centuries!”

“Shut up!”

“He gets knots in his back from stress, and I was relieving him of that pain! What you heard was Spain’s cries for me to quit grinding my elbow into his shoulder blade! Do you get it now? Do you get it now, you idiot!”

England took France by the hands and tried to rip them from his clothes. “Let go!”

The eldest did, walking backwards until he hit the door.

England turned away. He stared at the back wall with all his rolls of yarn. He took one step at a time towards his chair, moving very slowly.

France saw that the picture on the table was a framed sheet of embroidery. A bouquet of red and white roses. An inside joke between them: France the red rose, and England the white. Alone in his crafts room, England had been reminiscing their past together.

After a while, England took his seat. Knocking came at the door again straight after. He shouted, “Come in, then!”

The butler opened the door. “Sir, is everything all right?”

England sat in silence for a moment before answering. “Yes. Yes, everything is fine.”

“Would you like me to remove Sir Bonnefoy?”

“No, leave him be. Thank you.”

The butler shut the door again.

France stood with his hands behind his back. Waiting to fight for his innocence for another half hour.

“You're a liar.” England laced his fingers on the table. “You always have been. You're rather good at it, aren't you? You like to play with me, don't you?”

“England, it's not a lie.” After a while he continued. “What would you like me to do? How shall I prove it to you?”

“You won't,” he turned a sharp eye to the eldest. “Because you can't.”

“Idiot roast beef.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“You don't believe me.”

“Of course I don't. I've known you too long.”

France looked at the wall behind England. “Well, if there is no proof, you'll just have to trust me then, won't you?”

“You lie. You love to. I know you slept with Spain, the game is over. Let it go already.”

“You're the most stubborn-”

“Oh, of course: You're still trying to save yourself.”

“England. We can't do this. Our relationship won't last if we continue to be suspicious of one another.”

“When have I ever given you reason to be suspicious?”

“I don't mean a third party.” France rolled his eyes. “When you leave me alone on the estate, I question your love for me. I have no reason to think anyone’s after your heart.”

The youngest wiped his tears.

“I worry you'll acquire a new ego and have no reason to keep me. I worry you'll question why I waited. Why I came here in the first place. Even though I cook for you, maintain your garden, offer advice, my body, my time… you don't believe me when I say-”

“Get out.”

“We can't do this.”

“Get out!”

“England! We can't keep going round in circles with each other!”

“You may call me Sir Kirkland!”

“The one tearing us apart is you. If you can't trust me enough to believe my respect and devotion-”

“Get out.”

“Don't make me do this.”

England glared onward for a minute. “Do what? Play another one of your games? Don't you think you've done enough?”

“England, do you love me?”

The youngest parted his lips in slight shock.

France held his eye on the country.

England asked in a hushed tone, “What is wrong with you?”

The room was quiet for so long, the butler knocked on the door once again.

England said, “Yes?”

The butler opened the door. “Sir, the postman is at the door.”

“Oh yes.” England stood from his chair. “Sir Bonnefoy, you can remain until our dispute is settled or you can be escorted off the estate. The choice is yours.”

As the youngest walked out of the room, France said, “Of course I’ll stay with you.”

England whipped a stink eye back at the country as he left with the butler. Apparently, he didn't like France’s choice of words.

The eldest went straight to the crafting table, dragging the picture closer and turning it to face him. England’s embroidery was precise, detailed, and colourful. Much like his garden. Though, that was because of France. The two countries really were quite similar: They both enjoyed beauty, art… they were both passionate about making things, at least. If only he and England could trust one another, maybe they could have a decent relationship.

This was not France’s fault. England was the one throwing a fit. It was he who thought France was having sex with Spain. It wasn't true. It just wasn't. But England would never believe it. It was always sex with France. Always ‘cheating,’ ‘sneaking around behind England’s back,’ ‘desperate for a body, no matter who it was.’ France was too needy, as it were. Or so England thought.

France supposed they really didn't know each other too well if they were always suspicious of one another. Every time an incident happened between them, they were always wrong about the country in question. Like the time England left to build more boats for his naval power. France was afraid England wouldn't come home, or if he did it wouldn't be to see France again. He was afraid perhaps England didn't love him. But of course that wasn't true: England cried for France; he kept his voice down while they were fighting to keep the staff from overhearing their argument; he held France close and nuzzled into the eldest’s bosom… England loved him, there was no doubt about it. France had thought wrong. And just like the situation at hand, England thought France was still seeing Spain. But it was all a misunderstanding, and France was innocent. This was their pattern.

France stared at the picture. Bright red roses nestled between those of white, together making up one dozen in a bouquet. England loved flowers. He liked giving them meaning and pretending they held secret messages. One dozen roses supposedly meant ‘be mine.’ Red roses were devotion, and white roses were true love. Embroider the combination into a bouquet and you'll receive a promise from an honest companion. A promise of unconditional love, respect, and trust.

After a while of holding onto that last thought, France pushed the picture away from him. It seemed England had forgotten his promise. That in locking himself away in here and gazing into his embroidery for answers, he was trying to hold onto what little faith still remained. He knew he had to keep his trust in France, but there existed no evidence that the eldest was innocent. It looked grim for England. As a last resort, he ran to this picture. Maybe he was considering whether to tear it up, to forget the whole thing, to erase the mistake he'd made.

France stood in the light of the ceiling lamp, slumped forward a bit in all his sorrow. Why was he so blue? He was innocent. Was it because England would never believe him? That it was France who'd put himself in this situation in the first place? That he’d driven England to question their devotion?

The youngest entered the room.

France said nothing.

After a while of standing by the door, England said, “What did you dig up on the Moroccan Crisis?”

France turned round. “Germany wants you out of my business.”

“Why is that?”

“Without your protection, he can take Morocco from me.”

“He thinks I offer you protection?”

“Yes.”

England said, “That was my conclusion as well. Maybe I should listen. I have no reason to keep you.”

The eldest country crossed his arms in a slow motion, fighting how angry he'd become. Otherwise he'd throw his arms together like a child.

“I might as well leave you vulnerable. What excuse do I have to go out of my way for you anymore?”

“You've hardly gone out of your way for me. In all the years we've been together.”

England barked, “It might be a foreign concept to you, but I have difficulty even being in the same room with intimate partners.”

“Really,” France mocked.

“I don't entertain, let alone keep relationships with people, and let alone yet for centuries at a time.”

“I find that hard to believe, considering how old you are.”

On his way to France, England said, “Not all my relationships are sexual. What are you implying?”

“I didn't say anything.”

“It’s you who's the whore!”

France lowered his brow in distaste.

“I'm tired. Do you know it's actually exhausting to be with you?”

“Well, this was never a picnic for me either.”

“No, of course not.” England put a hand on his hip. “With all your fooling around, and mocking me, and teasing me- you did whatever pleased you! I was the one trying to keep you in line, putting up with your behaviour- I was the one who had to deal with the consequences of your actions!”

“In the end, England, this is about a child. If you disband the entente, Germany will take Morocco.”

“Let him. You don't know what you're doing with the young nation. Actually, you're corrupting the child by exposing Morocco to two cultures. Have you any idea how damaging that is? Being forced into a mixed family?”

“And what about Egypt? Do you suppose it's fun to be shaped into an Englishman? A tyrant of war and religious bias and constructs?”

“You've got plenty of blood on your hands as well. Neither of us are one to talk about war.”

France tried to steady his breath. “I'm asking you to stop this.”

“Why should I?”

“Please, England.”

The youngest only watched him, a look of hatred and self-pity about him. But behind the facade, France knew England was pleased about the direction this conversation had taken. Now England had the ball in his court, with the eldest begging him to comply. England had France wrapped round his finger again, it seemed.

“Please, don't leave me. Not only for Morocco’s sake. I don't want you to disappear.”

“You don't need to worry your pretty head about that.”

France stared ahead, not knowing how to turn this around. In all of the years they'd been together, France had always known how to come out on top after a fight, how to win, how to calm England down and smooth talk him into extending their relationship. But now, France went too far. He led England to believe a misunderstanding. France was too careless this time. He put too much faith in the possibility that England might trust him, and in turn, France was overconfident about the fact that he could dissolve any mistake with his smooth talking.

England’s patience had run out. He'd also run out of reasons to trust France. The eldest country was simply too difficult to handle. His sweet nothings and kisses and company and sex were never worth the heart aches. And much less, the headaches.

France said, “Do not vanish from my side. What is a man to do without his love?”

“I never liked your sappy lectures. Not only are they repulsive, they age you a few decades. They won't work anymore.”

“You heartless brute!” France shouted, “How dare you insult my poetry again! You’re clueless to what makes life wholesome!”

“Putrid words strung together like rubbish on a wire? I'd rather spend the rest of my existence deaf!”

“You foul country! You hideous devil, sucking the happiness out of everything you own! Your garden was practically dead before I had any say in the matter!”

“It was much quieter around here when you were nose deep in the hydrangeas!”

France shrieked, quite offended by that remark. “I knew you were jealous! You preferred me to be nose deep in the bedroom! You always liked when I experimented!”

“Shut up!” England turned red. “You perverted-”

“You liked it! You always liked it!”

The youngest stomped over to push him, maybe that would shut him up. Instead, France grabbed England’s arms, at which time the youngest took hold of France’s, and they pushed each other around the room, shoving onward and back like a heated dance.

France mocked, “You hated being beneath me, but you loved what I did to you!”

“Shut up! Would you shut up!”

“You're ashamed! That's cowardly, England! Don't you hate being considered a coward more than anything? You take pride in that calm facade you wear in public.”

“Of course I do! I never claimed to be shameless! Do you know how much it takes out of me to pretend I don't have a Frenchman hidden in my house?”

France tutted the country with a pouty lip, his brow low in disappointment. “The amount of effort put into hiding me? I believe you're searching for a different statement.”

England shoved the country, but was in turn pulled across the room. He tried to get out of France’s hold to shove him properly. He continued to yank his arms away until France released him. Though, once England was free, France went ahead and shoved first, catching England off guard. The youngest ran at France with a shoulder to knock him down with more force, but France remembered a time they'd fought like this before:

He squatted a bit and turned a shoulder to England to stop the country, remaining on his feet upon impact and returning England’s onward force. They stood with their shoulders together in a near wrestling position, grunting as they both tried to push the other down.

 

_Clad in brilliant silver, France thrusted his armoured shoulder into England, refusing to be knocked to the ground. Their metal bodies clashed in the sunlight with a strong echo. As he watched England with a triumphant eye, their armour gritted together as they struggled._

_England’s arms were downward, holding his sword tight in his gloved hands. He was prepared to sidestep and swing at France while the eldest stumbled onward. It would be a surprise attack from behind._

_But France knew how to play his cards: He'd seen the way England behaved in his presence. He could smell a crush like old Roquefort. What England wanted wasn’t a fight, it was to be recognised._

_France leaned onward…_

 

and kissed England’s lips, one hand on the country’s backmost shoulder to keep their huddle steady. He remained there by England’s face, breathing on his skin, trying to remain calm so the youngest would follow suit.

England made a small noise as he inhaled, his onward force dying down until he and France were merely standing in front of one another.

They waited for the other to make a move, panting in the dim light, frozen beside the hanging display of yarn. It was quiet. Nobody was waiting for them, not the postman, nor the butler. It was just them two now. Just France and England in the forgotten crafts room.

England’s eyes pulled shut, and he stood before the other country in a sort of dream state, unconscious but aware. It was as if he’d lost all control of himself and simply shut down, like a machine that had worked too hard, an overheated system that refused to push on any further.

France stared at his partner’s lips, frowning at the situation into which he'd forced England. It was clear the youngest was exhausted. How they'd fought and fought and fought each other to this very moment. This vulnerable, infuriating, dire moment.

He muttered, “England…” Without a response, he continued. “I'm so sorry… for hurting you with my actions. I won't leave the house if that's what you want, I'll stay here and refuse to see Spain. I'll refuse to see anyone. Even you, if it's such a bother to be in the same room as me. I'll be your pet. I'll obey. But I promise, England, I haven't slept with Spain. You're my only.”

England tried not to gag, his throat making a small noise as it held contents down.

“You can even puke at my poetry, if you so desire.” He mocked, “I won't be offended. I never cared to impress you with my mastery in the arts anyway.”

“You could never impress me like that.” He leaned into France’s lips, sucking on them lazily.

The eldest wrapped an arm round his partner, using his other hand to caress England’s chin.

The younger country slid his hands beneath France’s jacket, spreading his fingers against his partner’s vest.

France murmured into England’s lips, “Don't disband the Entente Cordiale.”

He kissed France.

The eldest said, “I want to stay with you.”

He kissed France again, their eyelids low in response to another tiresome argument, watching one another with a plea in their eyes. England, for one, begged his partner to just be normal. To do what he was told, to not rile up England simply for attention, to not cause another disaster just because he could...

“England, I want to stay.”

The youngest closed his eyes, hugging France against him.

“I love you, you know.”

“I'll use Germany’s threat against you if you ever try anything again.”

France scoffed, “ _Again_? I told you it was a massage.”

“I want us to have an eventless relationship. I want us to go a week without fighting. Preferably, I'd like us never to fight again, but I know how much I'd be asking from you.”

“England, this is what couples do. They fight and make up, and fight and make up. It's terrible-”

“Yes, it is.”

“But that's what makes the sweet moments rich. If we always got along, our love life would be bland as your cooking.”

England made a doubtful noise. “That's exactly what I need. I'm at a point where I’d really appreciate a nice, bland relationship.”

“Think of our sex, England. We have the most erotic sex with how often we fight.”

“You mean the fact that it's illegal?”

“Not where I come from. Actually, I could stand a little more kink. For you, I'm sure our sex is exciting enough as it is, but I've had far more erotic sex.”

“That talk isn't safe for you right now. I'm still debating whether to keep you or feed you to Germany.”

France chuckled into his partner’s ear, kissing it afterword.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want them to be happy...
> 
> They resolve conflict so fast cos they really want this to work!  
> And they really do love each other. They’re just idiots. They’re stupid idiots with no trust for one another!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A well needed time for fluff

1906

 

A world meeting was held to discuss the distribution of Africa amongst colonising countries, The Moroccan Crisis being the topic of interest. Morocco was the only region left to claim, and was currently being occupied by France and Spain. Because Morocco wasn't being colonised, the young nation was still open to be claimed by any European country.

Much to France and Spain’s disbelief, Morocco had a plan as well. The young nation had taken Germany’s advice, and was set on being a free country under no foreign rule. Germany explained that he would aide Morocco, and keep other countries from taking control of the young nation. It soon became an argument between Germany and France: One of them wanted to free Morocco, and the other wanted Morocco to remain occupied.

In the end, Austria, Hungary, and Morocco sided with Germany, and England, Russia, and Spain sided with France. The equal amount of countries on either side of the argument settled it: France and Spain were entrusted occupation of Morocco, and Germany had no other choice but to agree not to interfere any further. For one thing, France had the most powerful country on his side.

It was extremely suspicious that Germany improved his military, stalked Morocco, attempted to disband the Entente Cordiale, and gained allies for Morocco’s freedom simply to retreat (and call the whole thing off) after something so simple as a tie at a world meeting. Why would he go through all the trouble if a tie was all it took to stop him? No, it didn't make sense. Germany was much more complicated than this. England and France both grew quite suspicious of Germany after that meeting.

As for Morocco, the young nation wanted nothing to do with France. After all of the countries returned to their homes, and England drove Morocco and France back to his estate, the child refused to get out of the car. Through the window, France told Morocco that Spain would drive out here in the morning if the young nation didn’t want to be around France. Morocco agreed and went into the house with England. So, France hopped into his own car and drove into town to tell Spain the switch off plan.

England gave the butler his coat and hat, walking through the main hall to his chair by the window. Morocco ran off to the nursery to find Egypt and the governess. England thought about the world meeting a bit longer. How lucky it was that there was an equal amount of countries on either side of the argument. Otherwise, France and Spain would've lost Morocco.

He thought about the countries that sided with Germany and France respectfully: Of course, Austria and Hungary would choose Germany. Those three were close. Very close. Spain chose France because he too was occupying Morocco, and England had France’s best interest in mind, so of course he chose France. But what was this about Russia’s decision? What was Russia getting out of all this?

It wasn't unlike Russia to stick his nose where it didn't belong. It also wasn't unlike the country to stir up suspicion.

Russia had recently lost a war with Japan, trying to weaken England’s influence on the eastern country. It seemed Russia wanted to be on closer terms with Japan, but because of the Anglo-Japanese entente (an agreement between the eastern country and England), Japan was not at liberty to form such a friendship.

Of course, Russia sided with England at the meeting to keep his enemies close -seeing as England was standing in his way. Or rather, Russia was trying to keep the vote a tie so nothing would change between Germany and England. Perhaps Russia was avoiding another war. No doubt Russia heard of Germany’s growing military.

That was reasonable. That made sense. Russia was still only thinking of himself. Of course, he sided the way he did to avoid conflict.

Why was England so suspicious? England had nothing to worry about. The world was his. War had been avoided, France was back, the Entente Cordiale was still intact, and Germany was off their backs.

Everything was back to standard. England was still on top, even after all the madness. And it was madness. He’d handled everything just fine. He always did. Why did he worry so much? As France said, it was a time to indulge in one’s pleasures.

He and France had just recovered from a brutal almost-breakup. Actually, they were floating about in a grey area of their relationship: They had yet to apologise, or even talk about what had happened so they could move on. Before anything else, they needed to properly mend their relationship lest anything terrible happen again, and it definitely would.

In fact, why was England still holding on? Did he actually think he could change France? Was France worth the trouble?

Egypt ran up the hall and stopped at the entry to the room, leaning on the doorframe.

England turned in his chair to look back at the young nation.

After a short pause, Egypt asked, “Can I have independence from you?”

England creased his brow. What was Morocco teaching this boy? He replied in a plain tone. “No, you can not.”

 

When France returned from town, he went straight to England’s chair, knowing for certain he would find his predictable little roast beef there.

“Master Arthur!” France teased from across the room.

England held a cup of tea, though it was far passed tea time. He looked over his shoulder cautiously, suspicious of France’s choice to formally address him.

The eldest came to the back of England’s chair and put his hands on the younger country’s neck, cradling England’s jaw. “Let's go out tonight!”

England stared into France’s eyes as the eldest leaned forward. He looked afraid to say anything.

France kissed his charming partner’s lips. “Come! Let's live!”

“What are you talking about?”

“Would you like to see a film?”

England hesitated to answer.

“Are you going to deny me this chance to apologise?”

“Actually, I wanted to apologise as well...”

France stood upright, releasing his partner. “Good! You can prove how sorry you are by accompanying me to a vaudeville show!”

England turned round in his chair. “Do they show films now? I thought vaudeville was a stage for aspiring performers.”

“Films are poetic, don't you think?”

England made a displeased noise to accompany the fact that France didn't answer the question.

“I do like art in all forms, but I should like to see what all the fuss is about with moving pictures.”

“But this is a golden era. Surely you wouldn't want to waste your time on middle class entertainment.”

France gave a mischievous smile. “Oh, Arthur, I shall spend my money how I like.”

“Do you really think sitting in the dark is an appropriate apology?”

“There’s always kissing in the dark.”

England’s brow knotted in disapproval.

“You're not a fan of films, Arthur?”

“It's not the film. I want to formally apologise for assuming you and Spain were still seeing each other.”

“This is an apology. An act of loyalty in accompanying me to a vaudeville show.”

“That's not an apology. I wish to tell you verbally how sorry I am for accusing you of something so-”

“England…” He walked round the chair and squatted between the country’s knees. “I know you're sorry. I should apologise as well for playing these mind games with you. But the way we do this is by showing it through our actions. You could apologise and not accompany me to a film. You could also not say anything and join me. Which of these would be more convincing?”

The youngest frowned at him. “It isn't the same if I don't tell you straight out. It remains locked up inside of me. I don't see how that's healthy, or supportive towards a partner.”

“Aren't actions louder than words?”

“Yes, but you're missing the point-”

“Do not allow yourself to be slave to language.” He turned his chin to give England a more seductive stare. “Unless it is that of the body.”

“I can't just do things and assume you'll understand what I'm trying to tell you. And what about me? I need verbal signs from you or I'm never going to understand what’s going on in your head. You're so theatrical and dramatic, with your body language we’ll be going round in circles for days before either one of us knows what to do.”

“I never ordered for you to be silent. Rather, I’m teaching you of the ways of a relationship.”

England put his cup down on a side table.

“I know you're sorry and I'd like to see a film with you. The way you can apologise to me is allow me to treat you to a night out.”

“I fail to understand how treating me is my apology to you.”

France gave a quick laugh. “You never want to go out with me. This'll be like taking your child to the park.”

“You are a child, aren't you?”

France chuckled as he looked down, rubbing his nose into England’s groin.

The youngest jumped and quickly pushed his partner away. “France..!”

 

~*~

 

Vaudeville was an intimate theatre where middle class citizens went to see cheap live performances: Clowns, dancing bears, small ballet or gymnastic acts, music groups, and short plays. Nowadays, they projected actuality and narrative films on a hanging sheet. Film was a relatively new concept, but progression of it was growing more complicated every week. Actualities were short films of everyday life: A train coming into the station, or workers leaving the factory. Films could be made long enough now to capture narratives, and they'd figured out how to shoot with various camera angles so the film could have different scenes.

Vaudeville theatres were especially popular where America lives but they were built across the pond as well, though to a smaller audience. The demand wasn't as high or something rather. This one that France and England attended was located in London. The outside was quite decorative, once an earlier century hotel now the host to vaudeville. A grand sign running across the top of the ground floor windows. Striped overhangs hung above the pavement by the doors.

France and England sat in the back of the auditorium, seats against the projector wall. Every other row was filled with excited individuals, murmuring among their parties about this or that.

After a short while, a man stepped onto the stage and welcomed his audience. He introduced the evening’s narrative and stepped aside again, an applause rising from the crowd.

The auditorium went dark, and the sheet hanging on stage lit up with a credit sequence. A live symphony below the stage started up when the title of the film appeared. Then the narrative commenced:

A little woman dressed as a plant ran around her exotic garden, a painted backdrop behind her. A light tune accompanied her.

As the film went on, France couldn't help but be distracted by England’s fidgety hands. He leaned into the younger country’s ear and asked, “What’s the matter, Arthur?”

England turned his chin to press against France’s. “The last time I let my guard down, Germany improved his naval power.”

“That was to get Morocco. That's over now.”

“Germany wouldn't build a stronger military without reason.”

“You'll always be the strongest Great Power.”

“Francis, I'm so sorry-”

The eldest pulled away to sit upright again, refusing England's verbal apology.

England stared at him a moment longer, then turned his attention back to the moving picture.

The flower woman held her child, an infant dressed as a cabbage. When she kissed it, it exploded into sparkles and smoke.

The audience gasped, amazed by the effects of this film, then dissolved into laughter. England kept fidgeting his hands in his lap and France tried to keep his eyes on the narrative. After a few more minutes, the eldest held tight to England’s hands, trapping them together so they wouldn't move.

England stared ahead with a steady breath.

The film lasted fifteen minutes, a record in history. Imagine what they could do with a half hour. After being chased out of the auditorium for the next batch of viewers, as was the custom at vaudeville, France invited England to another means of entertainment.

 

Caught up in his middle class frame of mind, France took his partner to a roller skating rink. Wood floors lined the factory-style building, metal rafters held up the ceiling, and sunlight beamed down from the high windows. It too was crowded with people, a swarm of couples and individuals moving in the same direction round the floor. Voices echoed through the building, accompanied by the occasional burst of laughter or sudden fall. Circle dinner tables lined the outside of the rink with onlookers waving at passersby.

France himself and his partner fitted in skates, long leather boots nailed to a metal base with four wheels, and escorted the youngest onto the rink.

England held the outer railing for support, scooting along with the flow of people at a much slower pace.

France tried to stay beside his partner but for whatever reason his skates wanted to move faster. He was losing control of them, it seemed. The rink looked flat enough, but maybe there was a slope beneath him beckoning France farther along. His skates took him ahead of England, leaving him with nothing to grab onto.

“Francis.” His partner called, as if to wake France from a daze. -Because who would willingly skate faster if they didn't know how to stop?

France kept very still, trying not to lose balance and waiting for his skates to come to a stop on their own.

A small band was stationed near the centre of the factory along the outside wall. The group performed children’s melodies like Ring a Ring o’ Roses and Daisy Bell.

As France rolled on, he came closer and closer to said band, arms caught in mid motion as he tried to keep his posture steady. Other skaters zoomed passed, even children. Some went at their own merry pace, conversing with a loved one or just enjoying their time. France was neither of those types of skaters: He was more the type to pray he didn't make a wrong move and fall on his ass.

England pulled himself farther down the railing, on his way to catch up with France.

The eldest rolled to a slow stop directly in front of the band. Lifting one foot at a time, and keeping his feet as close to the floor as possible while doing so, he scooted to the railing.

Soon after, England’s skates slammed into his partner's, forcing the youngest to a sudden stop. He shouted over the music, “Francis!”

“That was scary.”

“Indeed.” England smiled. “Shall we?”

France took England’s shoulder and moved beside the country once again, skating along with him.

They turned with the rest of the crowd at the end of the rink, and continued down the stretch of floor that would lead them back to the other side of the building. After time, England let go of the railing and the two of them shuffled their feet across the floor without assistance. They turned once again at the other end and started along the band’s side of the building, moving with the flow of people in an oval fashion.

France giggled. “This isn't so bad. This is really fun. See? You're using your body language to communicate.”

“You're not using that term correctly.”

“ _Language_ _of_ _the_ _body_? How so? Aren't you speaking through action?”

England said, “Yes, but _body_ _language_ has a sexual implication.”

“Is that so foul?”

The couple of young women skating behind them soon crept closer, both of them wearing their dark hair up with hats.

The taller asked with a blush, “I beg your pardon, but are you French?”

France answered. “Mais oui, ma chérie.”

The women giggled and covered their smiles, skating slower to follow behind once again.

France turned a smile of his own to England, who looked onward. He peeked over his shoulder at the women, who quickly averted their eyes. The difference between these two audiences (the strangers and his partner) was remarkable. How someone could claim to love you so much but keep their eyes elsewhere, and how a stranger only has looks on which to base their attraction and yet cannot keep their eyes off. France knew England’s reserved behaviour was out of fear, as homosexuality was a crime, and England was quite the jealous little country, but the comparison of his partner’s behaviour vs the strangers’ was a work of art. It was mysterious and beautiful. How psychology worked like this was simply-

France fell on his back the next moment with a loud thud.

The women squawked in surprise and came to a halt just before his head.

England rolled on, hands in his pockets.

The women helped France to his feet, both of them offering a hand.

He glanced either way to smile at the two of them. He couldn't help but laugh as he said, “Thank you, girls.”

They laughed with him and pulled him along, looping their arms under his. The three of them skated passed the band, moving much faster than France was comfortable with. He swayed with them as they took long strides, being directed around the floor. If he wasn't so well fastened to two veteran skaters, this speed would've been suicide.

The shorter of the girls asked, “How long are you in England?”

France tried not to let his mind wander. He said, “I'm not sure when I’ll be leaving.”

“Are you with that man?”

“Oh yes, he’s showing me around London. He's my host while I’m living here.”

The taller woman said, “I'm Mary. This is my sister Ethel.”

“My name is Francis.”

“Nice to meet you,” said Mary.

Ethel said, “Charmed.”

France looked over his shoulder as the three of them zoomed passed England.

The younger country gave him a quizzical look, as if to tell France to go ahead but with a side note of _how am I going to stop you anyway._

The eldest frowned. He looked forward again to pay his new company proper attention.

“Are you two friends?” Ethel asked, “Do you know each other very well?”

France said, “We’re old friends. Very old.”

Ethel smiled. “You say that like you're tired of him. Is he that much of a bore?”

Mary laughed. “If looks could put one to sleep!”

The sisters continued mocking England’s appearance, talking passed the man in the middle. France suddenly felt out of place. This was supposed to be another one of those _“Oh, a handsome Frenchman”_ occasions, but it quickly turned into _“Englishman aren't my type but they're all over the bloody damn place.”_ Though, he supposed he could empathise…

France spoke up. “You know, girls, if I leave Arthur alone for too long, he’ll head home. He hates being out.”

Ethel giggled with her sister. “His name is Arthur. How quaint!”

Mary said, “Is he a hermit or something? How wretched!”

France pulled his arms out from under the women’s holds. “This has been fun.”

“Say goodbye in French, Francis!” Mary shouted as he tried to leave.

“Adieu.”

The sisters giggled and hid their mouths again. They linked arms and skated ahead soon after, leaving France stranded practically in the centre of the floor.

He bent down to use his fingertips as brakes, running his gloves across the floor until his skates came to a full stop. He stood up slowly and glanced around for England. Maybe if France could find him he could try to move in that direction. Or maybe he should just wait for England to catch up.

A ways off, shuffling along the railing again at a steady pace, came England.

France tried to turn around, keeping his body stiff. The crowd moved around him like he was splitting a stream.

England glanced up and caught his eye on France. Seeing as the eldest wasn't entertaining anymore, England made it his mission to reach his partner before anyone else could grab him.

France went against the flow of traffic a few steps, just moving close enough to his partner to let England know he was waiting. As soon as the younger country was close enough, France reached out with both hands for England to grab on. Instead, the younger country turned him round and escorted France along the floor once again. It was as if the recent mishappening never happened.

“Their names are Mary and Ethel.” France mocked to lighten the mood. “They're sisters.”

“Fascinating.”

“You should consider yourself lucky. You've wrangled quite the catch.”

“You see,” England paused. “Without a verbal apology, I would think you're still playing games with me.”

“Oh, Arthur. Communication doesn't start with words-”

“I think it does, actually.”

“Would you like me to verbally apologise to you?”

“I'm not sure that you're truly sorry.”

France stopped pushing himself along and let his skates slow on their own.

England looked back at him. Then slowed down as well. They were keeping traffic again, forcing passersby to swerve round them. England took his partner by the arm and pulled him to the very centre of the floor.

The crowd whirled round them like they were in the eye of a storm. Others stood there as well, waiting to get back in to the current or taking a break. Time and again someone would fall with a loud echo. Couples laughed together, friends would serenade each other as they formed a train with their arms, children would scream as they chased one another round the rink.

France stared at the crowd, a jealous look in his eye. What did it take to be like these happy couples? Wasn't he good enough for England? Of course France knew his partner was not one for relationships, and of course he knew he was practically forcing England to keep him around. He just wondered why it had to be so difficult, so exhausting, to be England’s intimate partner. He blamed most of it on England, but France could try harder too.

In the end, England was who he was and there was no stopping him. If either of them were going to be flexible and make an effort to change their relationship, it would be France. He just wanted England to care too. He wanted England to want to try harder, but France knew his partner was simply incapable. This possessive, toxic sort of relationship was nothing like France had ever experienced. England either, as a matter of fact.

All else aside, England doubted France’s apologetic standing, and France needed to do something about it.

England rolled over to the eldest in attempt to stand closer together, but he stopped too quickly and lost his balance. He fell forward into France, grabbing the eldest’s arms.

France stiffened to keep from losing balance, England pressed up against him. He looked down at England, exchanging startled looks with his partner.

The band hummed over the crowd: _Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer true…_

The younger country climbed France’s torso until he could stand upright, aligning his feet to stand firm beneath him. Once he took his weight off France’s forearms, the eldest brought his hands up to hold England’s arms.

France gazed into his partner’s eyes as they held each other. England looked up at him with a similar expression of alarm and tenderness. Multicolored pennant banners hung from the metal rafters overhead.

They shared this sweet moment only a heartbeat longer before England removed himself from the eldest. He tugged the ends of his coat to straighten it out.

Meanwhile, France put his hands on his hips, watching the crowd again until his partner should say something.

After a while, England spoke up. “I want to apologise formally.”

France matched the country’s loud tone to speak over the bustle. “You already have. You've joined me for a day out.”

“No. You don't under- This isn't what it means to be- Francis.”

The eldest offered a wide smile, starting for the whirling crowd. “Let us continue our journey into the unknown!”

 

England sat on a wooden racehorse, chasing France round a carousel. The eldest laughed and looked over his shoulder at England. As they made the same lap over and over again, rising and falling with the steam powered horses, wind blowing in their faces, looking much like sorry fools, England couldn't help but dissolve into laughter as well. He clung to the golden pole before him, feet in the metal stirrups, a rope wrapped round his waist to keep him on his horse. _Midnight Lily_ was the name of his horse. Black flowing mane, white coat with spots on her muzzle, hooves of midnight, England rode his steed alongside painted panels of mountains, valleys, and even the ocean. He chased France around the world. Again and again.

The eldest’s horse was _Sweetwater_. A bay roan coat of silver brown, with darker points and mane. France rested one hand on the horse’s backend, turning round to lean in England’s direction. The carousel noises swallowed his laugh, the uplifting melody playing from somewhere inside the mechanism, the breeze sifting through all the many horses as they went, the incomprehensible voices of other riders…

England laughed and reached forward, inviting his partner to hold hands. Suddenly, he realised what he was doing. Midnight Lily was only a label given to this horse by the craftsman. They weren't going anywhere, their horses were built into the carousel. This was an amusement park for commoners. England was reaching for another man.

Before anyone would notice, the younger country drew his arm in again, putting it back on the metal pole.

 

France road beside his partner in England’s car, heading home for the day. France considered their outing more on the ‘successful’ side, though there were bits he would do over or even avoid all together. Say, trying to ignore the fact that he had been in the same space as ‘magic soap.’ He would've preferred not to have been in that situation at all...

As a last stop for the day, England had suggested observing specialty soaps on display at one of the fair’s vendors. Supposedly, they granted the buyer wishes depending on the scent and shape. Each one came with a tag, complete with a poem explaining the soap’s charm. Out of curiosity, France had read the tag attached to one of the soaps carved to resemble a bear. This had been his biggest mistake of the evening. It read: _Peanut Brittle is the way, remove a pest all the day._ He really had tried very hard not to react, as England seemed genuinely interested. But France couldn't help but furrow his brow, both at the pitiful rhyme and the thought that people believed Peanut Brittle would solve their problems.

England had held one of the soaps in his hands, again, genuinely feeling the energy within it. A periwinkle peacock had gazed up at him, promising this message: _rid of toxins of the soul, soap will cleanse the water bowl._

France had made another sour face in response to another foul poem. With every new soap his partner had picked up, France tried to be more obvious with how disapproving he was of these ‘charms.’ Yes, England could use a pick-me-up, but France didn't have to pretend to like childish sources of pleasure.

Regardless of France’s body language, (groaning, shooing the soap being handed to him, turning his head away...) England ended up purchasing a whole bag of carved soaps. Granted, they needed a bit more practice communicating with their bodies. But what did France expect? He'd only recently brought up the concept of body language with England, and the younger country was less than onboard with the idea.

So, France sat beside his partner in England's car. Failing to ignore the turn their day had taken. He shouldn't be so bitter, it was only soap. He loved soap. Well, he loved sharing baths with England anyway. Maybe these carved animals were a good thing.

He held a paper bag of boiled candies, popping another in his mouth. He shared his candies with England, maybe England would share his soap.

“I think you should know…” England watched the road, the middle of his lips stained red. “We may be increasingly involved with Russia.”

France asked after a pause. “Why’s that, exactly?”

“As you know, he sided with you on the Moroccan situation. I have a suspicion he voted the way he did to remain on better terms with me.”

The car bounced along the dirt road, a light hum echoing from the motor.

France glanced at his partner, head low to emphasise his doubt. “With you? Are you sure his decision had nothing to do with Germany’s implications of war, or the custody of Morocco?”

“France, Japan and I have an entente of our own. It restrains Japan from involving himself with Russia. You see, I have influence in the east thanks to Japan, and Russia wants to take that away from me. He went to war with Japan to force a Russo-Japanese entente. Except he lost. As such, I remain in control of Japan’s influences.”

He watched out the window. “England, countries are going to get sick of you…”

“We've been over this before, you're not one to talk about bloodshed. And Japan agrees Russia’s expansion is dangerous. He agrees with me.”

“Okay, so you and Japan are best friends. What’s that got to do with our being increasingly involved with Russia?”

England said. “Because Russia sided with you, the same side I chose, and with my history with Russia, I believe the country may be up to something.”

“You'll never take a holiday…”

England wrinkled his nose. “Oh please!”

“All you do is work… Even on outings, you're brain is constantly thinking about worldly issues…”

England steadied his voice. “I don't want to fight.”

“I'm not trying to start anything… all I said was-”

England enunciated to get the point across, “I don't want to fight.”

France put an elbow over his seat, leaning away from his partner as he looked out the side window, avoiding England all together.

 

~*~

 

Well, France had no intention of nose diving into another worldly matter. This was still a golden age. He and England had all the money in the world. Of course, he could never convince England to spend any of it, and of course, what was money if it was never spent, but France still held himself with high regards. He’d been through so much over the years and he was proud to say it was all paying off. He’d been richer, yes, but this era was far more classy than any other, in his opinion. He liked the art, the fashion, the modern inventions…

England liked his chair.

Why did England like to sit so much? Was it because all he ever did thus far was stand? Certainly not. It was more likely England simply enjoyed making France upset with him. Think of the knight ages. All England wanted to do was “give another blow to France.” Really, that’s all England ever did. It was quite obnoxious.

Actually, France enjoyed their time together, even if they were quite literally at each other’s throats.

France sat by the pond at the bottom of the hill, a long slope of green stretched back up to England’s house behind him. Waterlilies crowded together around the bank, sharing the water’s edge with large stones and a man made bank. That was the other nonsensical part about arcadia: Everything ‘beautiful’ about the garden was man made. England couldn’t have a natural pond, oh no, he needed to build one himself. Well, France was certainly not one to talk: Think of the palace grounds at Versailles...

Nevermind.

Egypt and Morocco weren’t speaking to either of the older countries. France wondered if they even listened to their governess anymore. After the world meeting, Morocco was determined on becoming independent. What was worse, Egypt was on board as well.

Actually, why was France so concerned about Egypt? That was none of his business.

A couple of birds bickered at each other as they fought, flapping around on the grass near a thicket of woods. It was getting to be annoying. France scanned the scenery as the birds went on, a constant chirping in the distance. A spotted newt crawled onto the bank from below the water’s surface. It stood there a moment as if to test the air.

“Well, hello.” France said in his own tongue. “Do you think this place is arcadia?”

The newt stood still.

“Do you find the man made bank pleasing?”

No reply.

“Wouldn't you rather live in a natural pond? With authentic plant life and food?”

The newt finally turned its body, though away from France.

“No? You don't mind having been imported from somewhere else? What do your friends say about it?”

The newt stood still once again. Chirping echoed across the way, and France turned to the ridiculous birds.

“Would you quit your bickering? What are you fighting about, the tree? Whose tree was it before your disagreement?”

The birds flapped against each other as they screeched.

France turned to the newt. “I'm sorry about your neighbours. If it's any consolation, I live with a nightmare myself.”

The newt hurried back to the water but stopped before touching it, as if to reconsider.

France watched it a bit longer, then stood up and brushed his trousers off.

 

~*~

 

England laid in a cloudy bath, the water rich with pale minerals. The soap peacock sat beside him on a metal ledge, which attached to the side of the tub. Rain tapped against the high window at England’s feet, a dark sky beyond the white, wooden frame. Pitter patter upon the roof from the hushed storm surrounded him in a melodic trance. Time and again, the faucet would drip and contribute to the soothing energy of all the water factors of this moment.

A few light knocks came at the door.

England groaned. “What, France?”

He said in a muffled tone, “Where is the key?”

“I want to be alone.”

France knelt to speak through the keyhole. “It started raining on me. I could catch cold.”

“You know it rains here.”

“I can't stand being cooped up all day.” France pouted. “Please let me in. Where is the key?”

“Why is it so urgent that you use this bathroom?”

“You're in this bathroom.”

England said, “I'm not washing.”

“I don't need to wash, I'll just warm myself in your body heat.”

“France, I've made myself an atmosphere. You need to use another bath.”

The eldest pawed at the door.

“Stop.”

France made kissing noises in the keyhole.

“Stop!” He lowered his voice before stressing, “The staff..!”

“England, if they don't know by now-”

“France!” He shouted, “Go!”

The eldest slumped to the floor.

“Ohh,” England groaned as he leaned his head to the side in a new found state of fatigue. “You're such a child...”

 

The two countries laid in the tub with one thigh over the other’s hip, their feet near each other's backs, and groins just about touching. France’s arms were propped along the rim of the bath while England’s stayed beneath the water.

The youngest was still trying to relax, eyes closed and head back.

France tapped a finger against the porcelain, looking about the room as the sky grew even darker. The wall lamp dyed the room a golden colour, reflecting off the fogged mirror and metal essentials of the decor.

England said weakly, “Stop tapping.”

France did as he was told.

“This is exactly why I didn't want to let you in.”

“But you did.” The eldest smiled at his partner. “Are you trusting your detoxification with salt?”

England remained still. “Of course.”

“Are these the salts you bought me?”

“They’re going to waste.”

“Was this a trick to make me use them?”

England said, “Joining me was your idea.”

France chuckled and dipped both hands in the water, reaching down to stroke England’s legs.

The youngest inhaled, then said, “Stop.”

“Don't deny your body what it needs.”

As France continued along England’s legs, the youngest murmured. “It needs salt.”

“I think it needs to be given attention.”

England took a slow inhale as his partner’s hands circled his knees.

France rippled the water as he pushed toward the younger country’s hips, hands riding over England’s thighs. He leaned forward until he could prop his hands on either side of England’s head.

The youngest’s breath caught as France’s lips rested on his. England’s knees poked out of the water as he curled his legs, pulling the eldest closer ever so slightly. He lifted his chest to push into France, the youngest’s breast rising out of the murky bath. The wet ends of France’s hair tickled the sides of England’s face.

The eldest broke their kiss to crawl around his partner’s legs and into England’s lap.

The younger country’s loins quivered against France. England gasped at the sensation before his partner kissed him again.

France sighed, sloppily opening and closing his lips round England’s. He dipped one hand into the water and took the youngest’s member.

England took a slow, shaky inhale.

The eldest massaged his partner between his fingers, teasing round the head. As he continued, the youngest humped into France’s hand. The elder country ran two fingers down England’s length, squeezing it all the way down.

England gasped under his partner’s mouth before their lips came together once again.

France wrapped his hand round his partner’s length and pumped, moving along England’s skin at a fast pace but with a delicate touch, accommodating to the younger country’s repressed desires. As he did so, France pulled away from his partner’s lips, just far enough to admire England’s pleasured expressions.

The youngest lazily opened his eyes, misted green breaking through his eyelids like a dark sunrise. He stared up at France from where his head perched on the rim of the tub, the elder country’s hair reaching down from overhead. England took heavy pants, sliding his hands onto his own body and over to where France was working. He tried to pump himself for further gratification.

Any other time, France would've restrained his partner from doing so, but he allowed England to pleasure himself. This was about fulfilling the younger country’s sexual desire, after all. Whatever England wanted, he would receive -- in full.

The youngest gasped at his partner.

France dragged his tongue up the younger country’s neck, maneuvering round to England’s ear. He nipped at the lobe, tugging England’s skin with his teeth. France’s lips took over and he sucked on the younger country’s ear like an infant on a tit.

England took one hand out of the water to caress France’s head, pushing the eldest into the side of England’s face. All the while, France kept up the pace of his lips and fingers, pleasuring England both above and below the water.

The youngest sighed, watching the rain hit the window.

France hummed in his partner’s ear. “Mon amour…”

“Ah.”

France continued whispering sweet nothings in his own tongue, keeping his voice a low, sensual purr. His partner crept ever closer to his limit all the while, keeping his gaze on the window like a melancholic poet. France would've liked for them to make eye contact, but if this was part of England’s _unwinding_ _ritual_ , perhaps the eldest would just have to bear being ignored. In the end, a happy England was far more tolerable. For the most part.

“France..!” He tensed and grabbed the eldest’s wrist, restraining France from touching him any further.

The eldest chuckled. Nuzzling into England’s neck as he moaned, “Pulse for me.”

“You're hurting me.”

“Oh, England.” He pulled back to meet the youngest’s eyes. “No need to be shy.”

The youngest lowered his brow. “You're going too fast, you're hurting me.”

“Oh, pardon me.” France moved back in the tub, sitting between England’s legs.

The youngest looked up at France with a bothered look in his eye.

France wrapped his fingers round the younger country’s dick once again and pumped at a slower pace, keeping an even softer hold on it.

England swallowed as he watched the water.

“Look at me.”

The youngest grunted as he pushed into France’s hand.

“Mon amo-”

“Shit.” England stood from the water. “Finish me.”

France furrowed his brow as he tried to keep up. He got on his knees and took England in his mouth.

The youngest panted. “Ah..!”

France pulled away to spit.

“What are you doing? You idiot!”

“You've been marinating in salt!”

“Don't spit in the tub!”

France grunted and stuck his partner back in his mouth.

England sank under his partner’s steady bobbing until he sat on the rim of the tub. He moaned and propped a foot on the other side of the tub, steadying himself and giving France better access.

The eldest hummed round his partner’s length as England gripped France’s hair.

England grunted, “Come on..!”

France watched his partner’s irritated expression.

The youngest panted long whimpers as he glared down at France.

He came off England's dick. “This is a charming side of you.”

“Bastard.” He pumped himself instead.

France snatched his partner’s hand, then smacked England’s thigh. He scolded, “Ah, ah.”

The youngest’s eyes widened in disgust.

“Hold the tub.”

“You're an idiot.”

France ordered once more. “Hold the tub.”

England put his hands on either side of himself, gripping the rim of the tub.

France licked the underside of his partner’s dick, running his tongue up to the head.

England’s breath caught as he exhaled, his chest rising and falling forcefully.

The eldest poked the hole with his tongue for a while, taking his time to feel the dip in England’s skin.

“Shit,” he trembled. His whimpers slowly melted to soft moans. “France, don't…”

The eldest continued without a care.

“Stop it..! I'll let go.”

France smacked his partner’s backside to scold him once more. “You'll do no such thing.”

“Hurry up, then. I can't take it anymore.”

France moved lower to stroke his tongue along England’s balls.

The youngest squirmed at the touch, humming a sweet and desperate plea.

France began sucking.

“France! Stop!” As his partner went on, England threw his hands on France’s head. “France!”

The eldest grabbed hold of his partner’s hands so England wouldn't be tempted to move them again. He indulged in pampering the younger country’s lower regions as England practically screamed.

“Enough!” He maneuvered his legs to try to get France away from him.

The eldest said with his nose smashed against the underside of England's member, trying to remain in front of it while his hands were occupied. “I can't help but tease you. I haven't seen this side of you in years.”

“Would you just finish me already? I was trying to relax.”

“Trust me." France gave his partner a knowing smirk. “You'll be plenty rested by tomorrow.”

England hung his mouth, his thighs trembling on either side of France’s head.


End file.
